


Scars From Tomorrow

by Wolftraps (AlwaysBoth)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Oral Sex, Stilinski Family Feels, not-so-major character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysBoth/pseuds/Wolftraps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What, you think I stopped tapping my dad's police calls once I started getting involved with monsters and persons of interest? Tch-yeah. That makes sense." </p><p>Five minutes later, Derek is gone, their lacrosse gear is packed, and Stiles is starting up his jeep. Scott's rifling through the bag of clothes, complaining about Derek and being broken up with Allison and summer school and Allison being away at some hunter boot camp for the summer, and something settles in Stiles' mind. Everything's back to normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's taken so long for me to get towards the end of this fic, I'd like to note that it was entirely plotted out prior to 3a airing. The only season 3 elements included in this fic are those released as teasers prior to 3a starting.

"I need you to do something for me."  
  
Quiet makes Stiles nervous these days. After however many months of monster after monster and running or scheming for their lives, a few weeks of supernatural silence is welcome but worrying. So when Derek Hale shows up during his and Scott's biweekly lacrosse practice, it's almost a relief... not that Stiles will tell anyone that. They'd take it the wrong way, he's sure. Seeing Derek Hale is never a relief. It is, in fact, one of the most stressful repeating occurrences of Stiles' life. The relief comes in no longer waiting for something to happen. Besides, it's summer break, so nothing else has been going on. He's been bored out of his mind.  
  
"Why should we do anything for you?" Scott demands, and Stiles is perfectly okay with letting him take point on this one.  
  
"Because you owe me for the Gerard thing. Don't even try to argue that. And because it's not about just me. It's for Erica and Boyd." And Stiles knows they're sold, then, because Scott may be okay with telling the Hales to shove off, but he can't leave the others, who he sees as innocents, to someone he doesn't trust.  
  
"What's wrong with Erica and Boyd?" Derek doesn't answer right away. He purses his lips and glowers, avoiding direct eye contact like he does every time he doesn't want to ask their help or admit he doesn't know what he's doing.  
  
"Yes, I can see you're just desperate for our assistance. A real font of helpful information you are." Sometimes, Stiles wishes he could control himself and his sarcastic remarks better. This? This is not one of those times. Seeing Derek's jaw clench in annoyance plants a sort of warm joy in his chest.  
  
"I don't know for sure that anything is wrong." He rolls his eyes and gives that wide-eyed exasperated stare, cutting off Stiles' prepared smart-aleckery. " _Yet._ There's a chance they're fine, but they've been missing since Chris Argent supposedly helped them escape his father."  
  
"So, what, you think Mr. Argent was lying? He helped us fight Gerard! He didn't even want to kill Jackson! He could've just said he hadn't seen them! Why would he lie? Did he _sound_ like he was lying?"  
  
"Guys," Stiles tries to interject and is summarily ignored.  
  
"The Argent clan is full of accomplished liars. Don't trust him just because you're screwing his daughter."  
  
"I'm not! But you shouldn't assume he's lying just because you _got_ screwed by-"  
  
" _Guys!"_ Two angry werewolf glares focused on him should not be something Stiles brushes off as commonplace. "Before you two start a pissing match, can I please ask why it took so long for you to start looking for them?"  
  
"I was waiting to see if they came back, or if they would turn up in the area. We... had a disagreement. They decided to split from the pack."  
  
"What, they realized you're a shit alpha, too?" And when you don't think twice about putting yourself between two monstered out, growling, pissed off werewolves, there's a chance you should reevaluate your life choices. Stiles would hopefully have time for that later, though.  
  
"Seriously, guys, if the kid who hasn't had his Adderall today is the one keeping you on track, you've got some issues. Erica. Boyd. Focus. What if they _did_ decide to ditch? That could explain their absence."  
  
"There should be some sign of them."  
  
"If they ditched you, why do you care? It's not your job to keep tabs on them anymore."  
  
"The same reason I still watch out for you, Scott. You're _my pack_ , whether any of us like it or not. So until you find yourselves a new pack, you're _my_ responsibility. Anyway, it's not just Argent or them leaving. There's a chance they might have been taken."  
  
Scott looks about to argue again, but Stiles cuts him off. "Taken by whom, exactly?" And there's that clenched jaw again, like it's a test of Derek's patience every time Stiles opens his mouth. Well, he's going to have to suck it up because _he's_ the one asking for help and Stiles is not letting them get into something again without all the available information on the table.  
  
"There's another pack in town," he admits, "one comprised entirely of alphas." This revelation is followed by a moment of silence, then-  
  
" _What?!_ " Scott yells, eyes wide and voice getting a bit squeaky, as it does.  
  
Stiles, meanwhile, stares blankly ahead, still processing. "A pack... of alphas."  
  
"How long have they been here?!"  
  
"Since just before the confrontation with Gerard, most likely."  
  
"A pack... how does that work?"  
  
"And you didn't think we should _know_ this?!"  
  
"It wasn't your problem." Scott's on the verge of hitting something, which makes Stiles vaguely thankful he parked in the lot today, though attacking Derek is a surefire way to get his ass kicked.  
  
"Is there like an _alpha_ alpha? Or-"  
  
"How is a whole pack moving into Beacon Hills _not our problem?_ In case you hadn't noticed, we live here too!"  
  
"Because they're not here for-"  
  
"I mean, as far as I've seen, you alpha types don't seem too keen on teamwork and taking orders-"  
  
" _Stiles!_ " He snaps back with a physical jolt and falters under the twin exasperated expressions aimed at him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Possibly not the most important issue right now, dude." And, ok, Stiles can probably concede that point. He shrugs and gestures them to continue with the lacrosse stick still clutched in his hand. They probably weren't going to be getting any more practice time in today.  
  
"They're here for me," Derek says. "New alpha, young pack, I'm easy prey as far as they're concerned. And whoever kills _me_ gets my territory." Once again, he continues before Stiles has the chance to do more than open his mouth. "But that _doesn't matter_. Are you going to help me find the others or not?" Scott starts falling into his sulking pose, but nods.  
  
"What do you need us to do?"  
  
"You, just listen and smell around town. See if you can find any trace." The bag Derek's been holding goes flying at Scott's face; though, werewolf reflexes and all, it never reaches its destination. "There's some of their clothes in there for you to get the scent. And Stiles-"  
  
"What, you think I stopped tapping my dad's police calls once I started getting involved with monsters and persons of interest? Tch-yeah. That makes sense." He resists the urge to punch Derek in the arm, mostly because there's still about eight feet between them. "Dude, I got this." And Derek nods, but there's this contemplative edge to his look that sets off warning bells in Stiles' brain.  
  
Five minutes later, Derek is gone, their lacrosse gear is packed, and Stiles is starting up his jeep. Scott's rifling through the bag of clothes, complaining about Derek and being broken up with Allison and summer school and Allison being away at some hunter boot camp for the summer, and something settles in Stiles' mind. Everything's back to normal.

  
\-----------------------

  
  
The rest of the day, and the next few, pass with little change. The only real difference being that Derek shows up in Stiles' room, through the window of course, for a few hours every night to listen in on the police scanner. It's totally the highlight of his day, being glared at and pestered about calls, like every shoplifter or drunk driver would give him some clue as to Erica and Boyd's whereabouts.  
  
Monday, sometime around noon, after his dad's left for work, but before he's gotten ready for the day, someone rings the doorbell. And the fact that he's so used to people just climbing through his bedroom window that the _doorbell_ makes him nervous is frankly ridiculous. His trepidation is validated, though, because when he opens the door he gets a heavy bag to his chest and brief glance of strawberry blonde locks as Lydia Martin strides past him to make herself at home. He stares, bewildered, at the empty doorway for several moments, mouth open and clutching a gold computer bag like a shield, before shaking himself out of it, shutting the door and following her up to his room.  
  
She's propped herself on the edge of his bed, legs crossed, lips pursed, phone in hand, and looking so much more dangerous than any of the supernatural creatures in Stiles' life.  
  
"Well?" she demands, because Lydia Martin does not _ask,_ "are you going to offer me refreshments?"  
  
"Sorry, uh, do you want something to drink?" Stiles asks, more a question of a question than a real offer, but Lydia's obviously not going to get around to why she's here until he's observed the pleasantries.  
  
"Water will be fine."  
  
He drops the bag by his desk and treks back down to the kitchen, wondering the whole while why she's there. He can't believe that she'd broken up with Jackson, not after the whole 'true love breaks the kanima spell' thing. No matter how much he'd like to imagine she had. So, realistically, she's not there because she realized how wonderful Stiles is and wants to hook up. So maybe she has questions about the werewolf thing? Allison's not around to ask and Stiles is pleased to say he's far more knowledgeable on the subject than Jackson even though Jackson _is one_. Or she wants Stiles to back off now that the two of them are a permanent item for the foreseeable future. Though Stiles doesn't think he was ever really creepy or pushy about liking her. Well, except for the presents for her birthday and demanding she dance with him at the formal and spending the whole weekend at the hospital after she was bitten and yelling at her when she was going to face kanima Jackson... well, shit.  
  
He pours the water in a clean glass from the cupboard, grabs himself a ginger ale, and makes his way back up to his room again. Lydia's moved to the desk and set up her laptop next to his own. It's only when he sets the water next to her and she gives him a once over that he realizes he's still in sweatpants, shirtless, since he'd barely gotten out of bed when she showed up. Blushing and scrambling, he throws on the first shirt he can extract from the dresser.  
  
"Not that I don't appreciate your presence," he says as she continues to busy herself between the two machines. "Because you know I do. But, uh, why are you here? At my house?"  
  
Spinning around, she fixes him with that judgmentally contemplative stare of hers. "Tell me, _Stiles_ , how's your Latin?" She stands up, grabbing her bag again, and stalks toward him, backing him up until his legs hit the edge of his bed and he, rather ungracefully, sits. The bag, deposited on his lap, yields three books on archaic Latin. Suddenly the images on the laptops, transferring from hers to his, make a lot more sense.  
  
"You're translating the bestiary."  
  
"Me? Oh, no, Stiles. _We_. We are translating the bestiary. You see, as far as I've gathered, my boyfriend spent half the year so far turning into a lizard monster on the whim of a psychopathic stalker. Now, he's a freaking werewolf because of something _I_ apparently did after _your_ little werewolf friends tried to kill him. So, here's what's going to happen. You're going to sit there and explain to me _exactly_ what has been going on for the last year, and then you're going to study your ass off. Then _we_ are going to translate this stupid book and figure out what the _hell_ I am. Capiche?" God, she's frightening. He nods, pressing the books into his lap to avoid awkwardness or further wrath. "Good." She flips her hair over her shoulder as she pivots, sinking gracefully back into the computer chair.  
  
Stiles stares down at his new study material, trying to calm himself and remember that he can breathe. She hasn't killed him yet. Seconds later, an object comes flying out of his peripheral vision to strike him in the chest, landing atop the books. His Adderall.  
  
"Let's get started, then, shall we?" Terrifying, she is.

 

\----------------------------------------------------

  
  
Lydia leaves around four with a warning that she'll be back after lunch on Wednesday and he'd better be ready, as if she'd given him some notice today and he'd just ignored it. Once she's gone, he flips on the police scanner and grudgingly falls into his daily exercises. The thing about deciding to try for first line and possibly team captain on a team that includes Isaac and Jackson and maybe Scott and possibly even Boyd, is that you actually have to work at it. Well, that or, if you're Stiles, be willing to slip Coach Finstock your dad's cell number, and Stiles is really trying not to let his mind go anywhere near that for lack of adequate brain bleach.  
  
It's still early, barely five, his dad likely won't be home before seven and Derek never makes an appearance until after dark. So Stiles takes a shower, and some 'personal time', before heading down to the kitchen to make dinner. Considering how much Adderall he's had today, he probably won't eat any, but he feels much better when he's got something waiting for his dad. Gives him some hope he's not a total failure as a son. He sends a text to Scott while the bake is in the oven, to be sure he hasn't caught anything on his end, and makes it a little further in the Latin book before his eyes begin to wander and his brain starts running off on tangents and generally makes it known that he's done with archaic Latin for the day.  
  
Food stored, he retreats to his room, and his computer, and opens up WoW and the bestiary and a few tabs on shapeshifter variations and supernatural repellants, which leads to Supernatural gifsets on Tumblr and a little too much time comparing grumpycat gifs to Derek Hale's face. Nothing of note comes over the scanner. It's dark by the time he notices he has a text from his dad saying it would be a late night and, hey, Derek's standing in the corner being a creeper again.  
  
Actually, it goes more along the lines of:  
  
"We have a 10-60 at 341 Hampshire," crackles over the scanner, and Stiles processes it without paying any real attention, but  
  
"What does that mean?" follows just after, too close, too loud, too very much Derek Hale in his bedroom unannounced.  
  
" _Ohmygod,_ " Stiles responds, with what may possibly be a slightly excessive amount of flailing. He stays in his chair, though, so none of that really matters and can totally be struck from the record.  
  
Summary of events: Derek Hale is the creeper of creepers.  
  
"Are you allergic to making some noise?" Stiles asks, "Or do you just get off on scaring the crap out of people? No, you know what? I don't actually want to know that. Will you just sit down? Stop lurking." He thinks for a moment that Derek is going to ignore him, to stay standing just to be contrary, and he's fully prepared to ask if Derek is two, but he settles himself into the chair and grabs the nearest book. Stiles is thankful it's one of the Latin books this time instead of a playboy or something. He doesn't feel like dying of awkward tonight. Flipping on his desk light, he turns back to the computer and tries to ignore Derek's presence and how uncomfortably comfortable he is with him just hanging out in Stiles room on a Monday night.  
  
"You didn't answer my question," Derek says, flipping absently through the book. Though, for all Stiles knows, learning obsolete languages may be one of Derek's favored pastimes. The guy isn't exactly a sharer.  
  
"What?"  
  
"10-60. What does that mean?"  
  
"Somebody locked themself out." Stiles doesn't bother to stop chewing on the pen cap in his mouth as he replies. The corresponding pen continues scrawling tidbits on were-creatures. Aside from the soft scratch of his note taking, the occasional click of a mouse as he navigates to a new site, and the scrape of pages turning in the book Derek may or may not be reading (the burning hole boring into the back of Stiles' skull points to "not"), the room goes silent for a few minutes. Then the radio crackles again, calling for a code 7.  
  
"And that means?"  
  
"Someone's stopping for dinner. Look, are we really going to do this all night again, or could you maybe, possibly, trust me to let you know when something is relevant?" Derek doesn't respond other than upping the lethality of his glare, and the next call is greeted by auditory silence, but Stiles can practically _hear_ Derek's pointed glare. "Ugh, _fine_. Possible drunk, streake- oh my god it's Erica." Derek is on his feet.  
  
"Where?"  
  
"She's nake-"  
  
"Stiles! Where is she?"  
  
"Uhh... Hawthorn and Johnson. But the police are al-" Derek is out the window. "-ready there. You're not going to make it in time." He pauses a moment to be sure Derek really is gone and out of casual werewolf hearing range. "Oh, yeah. Thanks for your help in tracking down my wayward pups, even though you have every reason to hate us, Stiles. I really appreciate it. Couldn't have done it without you. Hey, want to come help me track down a naked girl and fend off the cops? Not like you have some experience in that or anything." Stiles stares blankly at his computer screen for a few seconds, then he drops the pen, leans back in the chair and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. "What is my life, even?"

  
\--------------------------------------

  
  
Stiles doesn't hear anything from Derek or his merry band of misfits for the next couple weeks, not that he really expects any different. The Hale pack only shares when they need something. No one's been sneaking into his room at night, though, so he's assuming all's as well as it can be. Once upon a time, he would have expected his dad to tell him about it, if the police had caught up with Erica. These days, though, that level of trust is long gone, and Stiles still isn't sure how to handle the strain between him and his dad.  
  
So he studies Latin and stumbles through the bestiary. He practices lacrosse and hangs out with Scott. He starts working at the station part time, just little odd jobs and secretarial work, since he knows his way around and they're pretty short staffed these days. Sometimes, on the weekends, he'll do the odd chores for Deaton around the animal clinic in exchange for lessons on the supernatural. All in all, his life settles into some bizarre balance of weird and normal. It would be awesome, but there are still "animal attacks" and the like happening with worrying frequency, meaning the alpha pack is yet at large and it's all just waiting to come to a head.  
  
August 2nd, just before dinner, Lydia shows up at his house with tear stains on her cheeks and an expression torn between lost and determined.  
  
"Jackson's gone," she says. "He's been taken."


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
What follows is the most awkward get together/team meeting Stiles has ever had the misfortune of attending. Complete with chocolate chip cookies, courtesy of Scott's mom.  
  
They gather at the McCall residence as semi-neutral territory because Scott's mom is human and in the know; also because, well, everyone likes Scott's mom and hopefully won't make trouble for her. So they stand around, Scott, Stiles, Derek's pack, Lydia, and Chris Argent, with miscellaneous lackey number 12, glaring at each other for several minutes as the tension builds. Stiles feels like he should say something to defuse it before someone else opens their mouth and starts another war, because _someone_ is about to, but he can't think of anything appropriate (or appropriately inappropriate).  Something needs to happen soon, though. His snark senses are tingling.  
  
Or it could just be that Peter looks like he's about to talk and Stiles has never heard anything come from his mouth that wasn't pure sass.  
  
"You keep your mouth shut," Lydia snaps, glaring intently at Peter. The two of them together is possibly the most dangerous of the combinations they have in the room. He gives her a sort of mock offended look but raises his hands in surrender. "Now if we're all done trying to kill each other with our eyes, can we please get started on the rescue?"  
  
"First of all, what do we know about the enemy and their location?" Mr. Argent starts, coming forward to set a map of Beacon Hills on the coffee table and taking a seat with a pointed stare at Derek who finally drops onto the couch across from him. Everyone else follows their lead, Erica and Isaac slumping on either side of their alpha. Scott and Lydia both take chairs, with Stiles perched awkwardly on the arm of Scott's. Boyd stands at Derek's shoulder, Mr. Argent's' henchman at his, and Peter lurks in the corner, as he does. Derek doesn't look away from Argent, but he pats Isaac's knee, which is apparently his signal.  
  
"The alpha pack's taken to using an abandoned cabin as base camp, right around here." He points to an empty spot on the map, right at the edge of the preserve. "Initially there were five, but during the rescue..." He shrugs. "So there's three to worry about now."  
  
"You're sure they haven't made some new recruits?" Mr. Argent's shadow asks. "There's been some missing persons."  
  
"This pack doesn't work like that," Peter says. "They're all alphas, so it's more like... a team. They defer to the one called Deucalion, so he's team captain, but a couple bad plays and he gets demoted. No one's allowed to turn anyone because having betas, who only answer to one alpha, is a threat to the other teammates."  
  
"And you're sure Jackson didn't go to them willingly? He could have seen this as an opportunity. He does generally seem to be out for himself." Lydia doesn't appreciate Chris' input.  
  
"First of all," she snaps. "He would have told me-"  
  
"Like he told you about werewolves in the first place? And that he planned to become one?"  
  
"No, _because_ he didn't tell me those things. Jackson may be self-centered, but he's not that hard to train. Anyway, Jackson wouldn't join a team unless he knew he could be captain. And his cellphone was left behind and there were signs of a struggle."  
  
"And you're sure they're keeping him here?"  
  
"We haven't seen him, but we know they're all there," Isaac says. "I tracked them to the new location after we busted their last lair."  
  
"They may have been leading you falsely. These are seasoned alphas. You think they couldn't tell they were being followed by an inexperienced beta?"  
  
"You forget we're not just wolves." Isaac's eyes are dark and even Stiles can see he's shaking. "Going unnoticed was a pretty important survival skill for me as a human. I haven't lost it." The room goes silent until Derek puts a hand on Isaac's shoulder and leans forward.  
  
"We've been keeping tabs. This is the place."  
  
"Alright, great! One debate down, a zillion to go," Stiles cuts in. "Can we maybe do this with less arguing, more intel? We probably want this done _this year_." They all glare at him a bit, but Mr. Argent nods, since he seems to have this odd habit of actually listening to Stiles, and gestures Derek to continue, who then nods to Boyd.  
  
"There are three of them, like Isaac said. Deucalion is the leader, the brains behind the operation. We'll probably want to take him out first. The others won't retreat or surrender without him, but they would need to regroup, as long as we catch them off guard."  
  
"Which will be hard enough, since Deucalion doesn't know the meaning," Peter pipes in.  
  
"Something you'd like to share with the class?" Mr. Argent asks.  
  
"Oh, no, please continue."  
  
"The hardest will be Kali. She's lethal in close quarters, and they're all super strong and super fast."  
  
"And their goal is the Beacon Hills territory," Derek says, "so we can't just scare them off. They'll keep coming back." Everyone goes quiet for a moment, looking at each other with varying levels of trepidation or determination to be sure they're all on the same page.  
  
"Alright," Mr. Argent says finally. "What's the plan?"

  
\----------------------

  
Stiles understands. Really he does. He's not a werewolf or a special trained werewolf hunter. He's just an average teenage human. Still, it would be nice _not_ to have mountain ash duty for the big showdown.  
  
Allison sits in the passenger seat of his jeep, fiddling with some fancy arrowhead or other. Her dad called her back last night specifically for this, and she's only been in town for a couple hours. Turns out hanging with your best friend's ex is super awkward; neither of them have spoken for almost ten minutes, both waiting for the signal to move in.  
  
"So how was boot camp?" he finally asks to fill the silence. And one thing he appreciates about Allison is that, no matter how nuts things get or how frustrated she is or what side she's currently on, she never gives him that look like she thinks he's stupid or insane or a bug she would happily step on. It may also be the reason he's never been attracted to her, which is a whole other issue Stiles isn't willing to discuss right now.  
  
"Hard," she says, giving a strained smile. "Though informative. And kind of brainwashy. I think I've started to figure out when people are just manipulating me to their purposes, though, so there's that." Stiles is positive he's never heard her so bitter.  
  
"Wunderbar. Does that mean you're restricting shots to the alpha pack? 'Cause I gotta say, I wouldn't be that heartbroken if Jackson took some friendly fire."  
  
"I'm not sure you get the purpose of a rescue mission."  
  
"Ahh, but is it a rescue mission or an excuse to go after the alpha pack? I mean, seriously, what does your family care what happens to Jackson? A couple months ago everyone wanted to kill him. Wouldn't most of them throw a party if there was one less werewolf to worry about?" She flinches but nods. "Anyway, the last time I set off to rescue Jackson I ran him over with my jeep, so there's a precedent I'm perfectly willing to follow."  
  
"Well, sorry to disappoint, but I'm only aiming for the alphas. You never know about these men my dad brings in, though."  
  
"Speaking of, why do I have to be on mountain ash detail? Couldn't one of your dad's lackeys do it? I feel super awkward every time I need to ask Deaton for another big bag." She gives him an odd look, but before she can say anything the radio crackles. There's the signal. Allison has her quiver thrown over her shoulder, flash arrow notched, and has silently disappeared by the time Stiles makes it around to the back of his jeep. Why are all his friends teenage superspies?  
  
He lugs out the thirty pound bag of mountain ash, tosses it over his shoulder and makes his way toward the alphas' cabin as quickly as he can. It's a blessing that this place is like a tenth the size of Jungle because he only has a couple minutes to complete the ring. Timing here has to be perfect. Chances are good the alphas will try to retreat once they realize how outnumbered they are. And he also can't close it with any of the key non-human players on the outside.  
  
He's about halfway around when there's a dim flash to his left and the howling starts. He knows what should be happening: a volley of arrows through the windows (no bullets since they might hit Jackson), then the heavy hitters bust in; namely Derek, Scott, Peter, and Chris Argent. Allison and two other hunters are in the trees while the three wolfketeers prowl the perimeter. Stiles wants to look for them, but his part's not done yet.  
  
There are three feet left before the circle is closed and his anti-were ward goes up when Stiles hears Erica scream in pain and rage not far from him. He practically tosses the remainder of the bag in front of him, willing power into the dust, just in time for one of the alphas to slam into the wall. He's young, probably not much older than Stiles, so this must be the third alpha, the one they weren't worried about. The one whose twin Derek killed a month ago. Ethan. He growls at Stiles, standing only five feet from him with just his imaginary wall as protection, then backs up, dropping to all fours and shifting into alpha form.  
  
Stiles hasn't seen one since before they killed Peter. It's really not any less terrifying in daylight.  
  
"I'm not scared of you," he says wisely. "You know why? Because I'm out here and you're stuck in there. So what do you think about that, huh?" And Ethan looks ready to ram the ward, which is not reassuring at all. Scrambling back another few feet, Stiles tries to push more belief at the ash. _You_ will _hold._ It works, the first time, though he can practically feel the impact.  
  
But the alpha shakes it off and circles back to try again. And right before the collision that Stiles is physically bracing himself for, something shifts. He feels it shift. The hum he's felt at the top of his spine from the moment he started laying the ash is gone. There's no lingering traces like there usually is when he breaks a circle; the dust just goes totally inert, like he'd never powered it up to begin with.  
  
He drops to the ground just in time for Ethan to go flying over him, then scrambles up and back away from the advancing beast. Red eyes glare back, teeth bared, preparing to attack, but comfortingly familiar howls are drawing closer to them every second. Ethan runs off and Stiles allows himself to drop bonelessly back to the forest floor in relief.  
  
Two minutes later, Derek arrives on the scene, picks Stiles up by the shirt and slams him into the nearest tree. Then he's all up in his business with that pointing finger.  
  
"You had one job, Stiles. _One."_  
  
"Did no one ever tell you it's rude to point?"  
  
"You let him get away!"  
  
"I think what my nephew means to say," Peter drawls, coming into view with blood dripping from his hands, "is: what happened?" He reaches for Derek's shoulder, but gets angry red eyes turned on him before any contact is made, and what could probably be considered a snarl.  
  
"You stay out of this. It's not your place." And Peter's smirk just screams trouble.  
  
"Look," Stiles says, "I did my job. I made a kickass barrier that withstood an alpha throwing himself at it _twice_ , but something happened. Something that had nothing to do with me aside from, you know, giving an angry werewolf direct access to _my face_. So ask the hunters if one of them broke the circle or something 'cause it wasn't me." Derek's taken a step back, though he's still got a hand resting against the side of Stiles' neck that hopefully won't try to rip his throat out anytime soon. Someone yells from back toward the cabin, and the three of them make their way towards the source; Stiles being led by the superhuman grip on his scruff.  
  
"I think it's time to clear the area of all nonessential personnel," Mr. Argent says, watching Isaac and Scott lug out Kali's limp form. Even from a distance, Stiles can see the bullet wound in her forehead. A little bit away, Jackson shouts in pain as Boyd removes an arrow shaft from his leg. Allison gives Stiles a sly wink, and he does his best not to smile. She's staying behind with her dad, a lesson in hiding bodies or something, so the rest of the teens head back to his and Scott's cars.  
  
Once everyone else is back where they belong, Stiles lets himself into Scott's house and flops down on his best friend's bed.  
  
It's barely noon.  
  
Scott falls beside him within minutes and they both sit in silence, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the day.  
  
"So the third alpha got away?" Scott asks, finally, and it's awesome that he doesn't sound accusing at all.  
  
"Yup."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Dude, I wish I knew. Something stole my mojo."  
  
"Shit."  
  
"Yup. What about you? You guys got the other two, I gathered."  
  
"Yeah... Peter killed Deucalion."  
  
"Wait. So he's-"  
  
"An alpha again."  
  
"... Shit."  
  
"Yeah."


	3. Chapter 3

Jackson's parents go off the rails. Stiles can't say he blames them; having your kid get kidnapped, pronounced dead, come back to life, and get kidnapped again within a year would drive most parents up the wall, even if he was hardly gone long enough to get the police involved. But soon after Jackson's rescue they're announcing their intention to move east. Pennsylvania or New York or something.  
  
Mid-August, Lydia throws a going away party for him and invites most of the school. Stiles isn't exactly heartbroken over Jackson's impending departure, they still have a comfortable mutual hatred of each other, but for some reason they're kind of friends. Especially since Jackson actually went to the effort of getting his dad to drop the restraining order. So he shows up and has a couple drinks and bothers Scott until Scott wanders off to corner Allison.  
  
Eventually he finds himself in one of the quieter living room type areas, sidling up to Danny.  
  
"Trouble in paradise?" he asks.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I dunno. If my best friend were days away from moving across the country, I'd probably be glued to his side."  
  
"You're kind of like that anyway."  
  
"What can I say? He's the Robin to my Batman."  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
"What? I could totally be Batman! Where's Erica? She can vouch for my batliness." Danny rolls his eyes but smiles, so Stiles counts it as a win.  
  
"I dunno. I think you'd probably be more of a Flash."  
  
Stiles grins and settles against the wall, a little more confident in his welcome now. It's nice to have a normal conversation; to drink and fail at flirting with a hot guy; to not spend all his time thinking about the alpha that escaped and wondering why the mountain ash failed.  
  
"So," Stiles says a bit later, "Jackson's fleeing the state and Scott still doesn't know if he'll even be on the team this year. Who do you think Coach will pick for captain?"  
  
"I heard he offered it to _you_."  
  
"Yeah, if I gave him my dad's cell phone number. I don't know, he was saying something about cupcakes and I really didn't want to think too hard about it. I've been practicing, though. I'm going to be on first line and off the bench this year if I have to kill Greenberg to do it."  
  
"I'm pretty sure Finstock would give you anything you wanted if you did that." Danny shifts a bit, staring down at his nearly empty cup. "I know there's only a couple weeks left of summer, but maybe... maybe we could practice together sometime?"  
  
"Dude, yeah. That'd be awesome! I have something going on Monday, but maybe Tuesday?" Danny nods, then gives Stiles this intense look before downing the rest of his drink.  
  
"You want to dance?" 

  
\--------------------

  
  
Stiles is pretty hungover Saturday afternoon when he walks into the animal clinic. Honestly, he'd rather skip the day, stay home and hide under the covers, but he hasn't had the chance to talk to Deaton about the ash failing since it happened. With Ethan still on the loose, it's kind of a concern.  
  
Doc Deaton is with a patient when he gets there, so he removes his sunglasses, but pulls his baseball cap further down over his eyes, and grabs a broom.  
  
"You look like you had a pleasant night," Deaton says half an hour later, crossing to a supply closet to pull out some distinctly non-veterinary objects. Stiles makes a strangled sound in agreement. "You know you don't actually work for me, right? You can skip if you need." Stiles refrains from nodding because he's afraid his brain might explode out his eyes.  
  
"I know, but I needed to talk to you." Deaton gestures to a stool and Stiles sinks down with a sigh. "So, the mountain ash defected."  
  
"It didn't work?"  
  
"No, it worked. One of the alphas ran into it twice, but then it just... I don't know. Short circuited? It just went dead."  
  
"Perhaps something disrupted the ring? The wind or a creature."  
  
"I thought of that, but it didn't feel like when we've tried and broken it before. It just, like, stopped holding power at all or something. And I talked to Scott who talked to Isaac who said Derek and them checked the line and it was still intact." Deaton gets a contemplative look and jots something down on his clipboard.  
  
"There's a possibility that another person with... abilities could drain the ash, I suppose. Let me look into this and get back with you. In the meantime, don't let this discourage you. As you noted, this was not a failing on your part, and it is crucial that you not let your belief falter. Now, since you're here, let's continue your lessons." He gestures to the table where he's placed several hunks of scrap. "Each of these metals can hold and conduct a certain charge, if you will. You try to place them in order, least to most conductive, and then we'll work on identifying them." 

  


\-------------------------

  
  
It turns out practicing with Danny is fifty kinds of awesome. Seriously. At least ten times better than practicing with Scott, even if Stiles feels like a horrible friend for thinking that. The difference is that Danny's human. He's not inordinately strong or fast. He's just good. And Stiles can actually keep up with him, sometimes even scoring a goal. It does wonders for his self esteem.  
  
Danny also didn't become a star lacrosse player overnight by means of a supernatural hickey, so he actually has some pointers and other such useful information. Scott, when questioned on how to do something, usually responds with a shrug and 'I don't know, I just do it.'  
  
They're sweating by the time they finish, though not nearly so bad as if they were in uniform. Danny's taken his shirt off and Stiles tries not to stare, but it's not fair in the least. It's like trying not to look at a shirtless Derek Hale; you'd have to be blind to successfully resist the temptation. Still, despite the overheating and his wandering eyes, they're laughing and Stiles has been having a legitimately good time. One he's not quite ready to end yet.  
  
"So," he starts, flopping on the ground beside the gear Danny is packing up. He gives Stiles a once over and this almost confused look before rolling his eyes. He's still smiling, though, and if there's one thing Stiles has learned from years of being, well, Stiles, it's that a smile is an invitation for communication. "That was awesome and we should totally do that again and do you want to grab lunch or something?" 

  


\--------------------------------

  
  
Stiles will likely never be a real "computer geek." Google is his bitch and he's into a bit of online gaming, but programming languages will probably always be beyond him. Achieving some familiarity with archaic Latin is already more than he ever intended. He knows enough, though, and it's kind of fascinating to listen to Danny get excited about it. It's the fourth time they've practiced and gotten lunch together afterward and will be likely be the last since school starts again tomorrow. He knows he's not getting all that Danny is saying, he hasn't had any Adderall and his thoughts have been wandering, but Danny's interesting so he thinks he's caught enough.  
  
When conversation lulls, though, Stiles can't resist bringing up the topic that's been plaguing his mind for the last few minutes.  
  
"Hey, so, you never gave me an answer, and I'm nothing if not persistent." He waits for Danny's apprehensive go ahead. "Am I attractive to gay guys?" He doesn't expect Danny's expression to close off, but it does, and he'd thought they were getting along pretty well. "That bad, huh?"  
  
"Stiles... what are we doing here?"  
  
"Having lunch? Hanging out? That- that's the wrong answer isn't it?"  
  
"So this isn't a date?" Stiles' brain short circuits. "Stiles?"  
  
So it took almost a year for Stiles to get an answer to his question. Well, a year and some mythological shenanigans and Jackson moving across the country and building up to first line material, but that was 100% beside the point. Okay, maybe arm-in-arm with the point... snuggling a bit. And the extraneous factor may be so attractive that the point itself is forgetting what it is... Just like Stiles, who really could use some Adderall about now so maybe he could focus on the matter at hand instead of mentally trying to trace back how he got where he is.  
  
The matter at hand is giving him an odd look.  
  
"Yes!" he all but shouts, then backtracks at Danny's shocked face. "I mean, do you want this to be a date? Cause I would be so okay with this being a date. And with there being further dates."  
  
"So, if I were to pick you up Friday night?"  
  
"Seven?"  
  
"Awesome." The fact that Danny is smiling because he's going out with Stiles is awesome too.

  


\--------------------------------------

  
  
Scott and Allison are walking together at school the next day when Stiles catches up to them. A good foot of space between them in an attempt to convey that they're not together. They're not succeeding.  
  
There are still some aspects of Scott's werewolfy powers that Stiles isn't sure he approves of. Like, the super hearing means he can only be snuck up on if he's really distracted. (Stiles sometimes approves of Allison for this reason. Mostly not.) And super strength means that, even if Scott doesn't hear it coming, Stiles' tackles never knock him over anymore. On the other hand, Stiles is not above ~~forcing~~ accepting piggyback rides.  
  
"Scott!" he shouts, wrapping his arms around his friend's neck.  
  
"Stiles!" Scott responds, grinning.  
  
Stiles nods to the side in greeting. "Allison. Nice to see you off duty."  
  
"Hi, Stiles. You're actually exactly who I was looking for." She's got a business tone, so Stiles drops down to walk between them and gestures her to continue. His news can wait a few more minutes; bad news first and all that. "My dad wanted to offer to train you."  
  
"Wait. Train, like, as a hunter?"  
  
"Yeah. After the... situation last month he thought." She pauses for a minute and looks around, probably to see if anyone's listening. Then she shakes her head, gives a 'fuck it' shrug, and continues. "Well, if you're going to be fighting with werewolves, you should probably also know how to defend yourself against them." It's a valid statement, and Chris Argent has always been a semi-decent guy, even though the rest of his family were raving psychotics. Stiles is a bit concerned about one-on-one time with hunters when he's obviously on team werewolf, though. Also not looking forward to his first return trip to Chateau d'Argent after getting the crap kicked out of him in the dungeon. Still, it'd be a good idea as long as it's not a trap. Scott's not saying anything, but he looks constipated.  
  
"We can talk about it at lunch?" Stiles says, and when she nods he loosens up, throwing an arm over each of them. "Now! On to far more exciting news! Guess what."  
  
"You got me a pony?"  
  
"Yes, Scott. That is exactly it. The whole surprise is ruined now. You ruined it for yourself. I hope you're happy."  
  
"Sorry. We can try again and I'll pretend to be surprised?"  
  
"Nope. Moment's ruined. No, seriously. The Question has finally been answered. I am attractive to gay guys." He waits for a moment, silently prompting his audience to respond.  
  
"Oh, uh, congratulations?"  
  
"Congr- what. Scott. This is one of the most important events in a man's life. I want you to try that again. Come on, once more with feeling." Scott just shakes his head, smiling, but Allison, lovely Allison, picks up his slack.  
  
"We're very happy for you, Stiles," she says, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving him that smile that says she's humoring him but enjoying it nonetheless. It's damn hard to resent her for having taken up so much of his best friend's time and brain sometimes. "However did you come by this revelatory information?"  
  
"Danny asked me out!"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Oh? What 'oh'? That should not be an 'oh' inducing statement. Is it not possible that a guy like Danny could like me? Is it so unbelievable that someone might like Stiles? I know my track record is O for... or is this a setup? Do you think this is a setup? Jackson's messing with me from across the country for putting the moves on Lydia? Danny isn't the kind of guy to do that, though. And why now instead of _oh my god_ stop me talking! What 'oh'?"  
  
"What? No, nothing like that. It's just, Lydia says he's a little lost since Jackson's gone. I just hope you let him down gently."  
  
"I didn't." Yeah, great phrasing Stiles.  
  
"You-"  
  
"I didn't turn him down. Actually, I think technically _I_ might have asked _him_ , accidentally."  
  
"You didn't..." Scott takes a second to process. "But what about Lydia?"  
  
"You know, strange thing about that. There's something about a girl choosing a murderous lizard monster over you that makes you think it might not work out between you. Also, I'm under orders from her to not make any advances under penalty of... I'm not sure, but it scares me anyway."  
  
"So you're... going out with Danny?"  
  
"I'm going out with -" And now that people know, it's like it's real, and Stiles gets hit with the realization all at once. "Oh my god, I'm going out with Danny."

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to come chat with me about teen wolf in general or ask me worldbuilding questions about the scars-verse or whatever on tumblr: wolftraps.tumblr.com.


	4. Chapter 4

They grab him after school on Friday. It probably would have worked better if the guy who tried to manhandle him into the SUV actually was a werewolf and Stiles' dad hadn't spent several weeks drilling him in self defense maneuvers after the "opposing lacrosse team" situation. Instead, they have an anxiety prone teenager trying to figure out if he's having a heart attack and a hunter with a broken nose.  
  
Mr. Argent is standing nearby, beside the large black SUV that helpfully screams 'I'm trying to be inconspicuous!' in the worst possible way. When Stiles catches sight of him, he looks torn between amusement and exasperation. He rolls his eyes, takes a step forward, and Stiles doesn't really remember anything for a while after that.  
  
When he wakes up, they're in some kind of run down warehouse, of which there seem to be a ridiculous amount for a city as small as Beacon Hills, and he's gagged and tied to a chair. There's a chance that, done right, this would have been terrifying. Instead, Mr. Argent is sitting calmly across from him, explaining that this is training and Stiles is unexpectedly advanced in some ways but that move wouldn't work on a werewolf. Allison's standing at his shoulder, trying not to smile. Broken Nose has disappeared, likely to the hospital. And Stiles? Stiles is pissed. He doesn't know how much time has passed since they knocked him out, but he has a date at seven that he is not going to miss.  
  
Argent slips him a knife, starts a timer, and then he and his daughter walk out. That's just wonderful.  
  
\--------------------  
  
  
Stiles is really no less pissed when he gets home than when he woke up in the warehouse. He has less than an hour to get ready for the date and there are rope burns around his wrists that he really hopes Danny doesn't notice and ask about. 'Allison's dad knocked me out, bound and gagged me, and left me in an abandoned warehouse' likely wouldn't go over all that well. His only consolation is that his fevered determination apparently allowed him to beat Allison's time by eighteen minutes. She looked put out. Stiles didn't care.  
  
Aside from the nightmare that was the winter formal (literally a nightmare now, Stiles wakes up from it every so often still), and the thing at the ice rink, he's never actually been on a date. At first because he was so lamely unpopular that it just wasn't an option, and also because he was obsessed with Lydia... mostly because he was obsessed with Lydia. These days, besides the catastrophe that is his non-relationship with Lydia, he's so buried in supernatural shit he just hasn't really thought about dating. Also, he's kind of afraid anyone who might be interested in him will turn out to some weird creature that wants to eat his spleen. Seriously, it's all kind of totally uncool and unfair and un... something, because Stiles is the only totally normal human of their group (well, normal in paranormal terms) and it's highly likely that he wouldn't have all these problems with mythical beasties if it weren't for Scott. Who, once he and Allison pull their heads out of their asses, will once again be getting laid regularly.  
  
But not poor Stiles. No, instead of condoms he's stocking up on mountain ash, aconite and various metals. And instead of sneaking out to have sexy times, he has to booby trap his window so creepy, ridiculously attractive, werewolf stalkers can't turn up at all hours, skulking in the shadows, making nary a sound. So basically, what this amounts to is that Stiles is now frantically getting ready for his first date and he's never imagined himself to be the kind of person to freak out about what to wear.  
  
There are some things you don't know about yourself until you're put to the test.  
  
"But what about-" he tries for the who-the-hell-knewth time. He's had Allison on the phone since he left the warehouse and started freaking out. She owes it to him.  
  
"Stiles! Trust me. Wear the blue shirt and that jacket and please, please, _please_ dig out one of your tighter pairs of pants, and you'll be _fine_."  
  
"Are you-"  
  
"Stiles," Mr. Argent's voice cuts in, "she's not going to change her mind if you ask her again. Now, if you don't mind, we're trying to have dinner." The call ends before he can respond.  
  
"Oh so sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. Argent," he mutters, tossing the offending phone on top of the pile of clothes strewn over his bed. "Not like this is your fault in the first place or anything. Wouldn't want to interrupt something important like dinner." He takes a quick shower and puts on the outfit Allison suggested and has to admit he looks pretty good in it. Especially if the wolf (ha. ha.) whistle he gets just then is any indication.  
  
"Damn, Stiles, you're looking _fine_." Wonderful. Booby trap #12: total failure. Hopefully he'll have enough time to implement the next potential design before he has to leave. "Hot date? Lydia decide to go for fifth best now that Scales is gone?"  
  
Could this day get any better? Stiles actually generally likes Erica, when she's not knocking him out with parts from his Jeep or trying to make him feel awkward with her attractiveness and (hopefully just) former crush. But he does not have the time right now to be dealing with whatever werewolf-related issues she's no doubt here for. The universe is just against him having this date. Maybe he's cursed. Maybe Erica's here to kidnap him again. Or the hunters will strike while he's out. Maybe he'll run into Harris at dinner and somehow end up in detention for the entire year. He'll come home to find his dad's disowning him and adopting Greenberg. Ugh.  
  
Right. Werewolf. In the room. He should take an adderall before the date.  
  
"You know me. Beating them off with a stick. Maybe I should try throwing it instead. Do you fetch?" Erica flips him off but otherwise ignores everything he said.  
  
"So who is she? Should I be jealous?" Aaaand this thing about Erica and personal space is really a bit uncomfortable.  
  
"Did you need something? Or are you just hanging around my room for kicks? Do I emit some kind of pheromone or something that turns every werewolf in a mile radius into a creepy stalker? Are werewolf pheromones a thing?" Apparently, after several months of dealing with it, Derek's pack is no longer phased by any of Stiles' odd rambling. He's a little disappointed.  
  
"Derek sent me to get you. He needs your help."  
  
"Really? I'm shocked. I never would have guessed, considering the only time he ever talks to me is when he needs something. I don't know if I'm ready for this change in our relationship."  
  
"Are you coming or do I have to knock you out and carry you?" _Been there, done that,_ he thinks as he pushes her aside to finish getting ready.  
  
"What, are you a caveman? Do werewolves suffer short term memory loss? As you so astutely noted _not five minutes ago_ , I'm going on a date. So unless the world is going to blow up in the next half hour, Derek's going to have to wait." That's when his phone goes off. He makes a mad scramble for the bed and swears when he sees the screen. "Danny!" he greets, hoping his voice doesn't scream 'there's a hot werewolf chick currently trying to get up in my business.' "Are you here? Sorry, I'll be right down." There's no time to set another werewolf trap, especially since there's still a werewolf in his room. Crap. "I don't have time for this. Do your invasion of privacy thing and show yourself out? Thanks." Stiles is almost to the bottom of the stairs before she responds.  
  
"You're going out with _Danny?!"_  
  
\--------------------------------  
  
  
The date is going well. Stiles think it's going well. He _hopes_ it's going well. He hopes Danny thinks it's going well. Maybe he should ask if it's going well... There's probably some unofficial rule against asking your date if the date is going well. He forgot to take an adderall.  
  
It's not like he has any real reason to be this worried. Technically this could be considered their fifth date, and all the others went really well. He just didn't know that those were dates. Apparently that makes all the difference. His leg has been jittering for the last several minutes and he doesn't notice until Danny reaches over and places a hand on his knee. Stiles would prefer it to be a little higher.  
  
"So, are you fidgeting because that's what you do or because you're nervous?" Danny asks, voice soft and smile disarming. Stiles pulls a face. Stiles always pulls a face. At least his date doesn't seem put off by it.  
  
"Both? I don't know. Sorry, man. I know, technically we've been on a couple dates before. It's just, then I kind of accepted that you were out of my league and there was nothing to be done for it. Now, it's like... I need to impress you or something and am very aware I'm at a disadvantage." He quickly backtracks. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm pretty awesome. More people should accept the awesomeness that is me. You're way ahead of the curve on that, so A+ for you. But, well, it still kind of blows my mind that you're here. With me." Stiles zones out a little, thinking some happy thoughts, and Danny leans back to look at him for a second. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then hesitantly opens it again. Stiles is used to that. It's what most people do when he says something out of the blue or inappropriate; like they can't quite figure out how to respond.  
  
"Are you- are you thinking about blowjobs right now?" He settles on finally, and an involuntary laugh bursts out of Stiles.  
  
"It's like you know me or something."  
  
It gets easier after that. Danny's proven he has at least some idea of what he's gotten himself into, when it comes to Stiles as a person at least, and they return to a few conversations they'd had over the past couple weeks and bring up some new ones. Things still get awkward, but that's barely worth paying attention to in the face of things like Stiles awful bowling skills. He's not as bad at pre-wolf Scott, but Scott never wanted to go with him so Stiles hasn't been in years. There's some consolation in the fact that Danny's not a whole lot better. His score's not even twice Stiles'. Come on.  
  
They bowl another game, and it's just as bad, but it's almost fun. It's nice, it's normal, no one is actively trying to kill him and no one is bleeding in his vicinity. He could totally get behind this whole dating thing. Danny drives him home, after, and gets out of the car to walk him to the door. Stiles glances at him sidelong and smirks. "You know, walking me to the door totally does not make me the girl in this relationship."  
  
Danny blinks and raises an eyebrow at him. "No, I'm pretty sure we're both guys, Stiles."  
  
Stiles grins. Danny hadn't objected to the word relationship thrown in there, which means they are totally in a relationship, which means they are definitely going to do this again.  
  
They get to the door, and Stiles licks his lips nervously. Is Danny going to -?  
  
Danny is going to box him in against the door, because Stiles has a type. Danny kisses him, short and a little wet and over too soon. They grin at each other. "Okay, so this was officially amazing. I'll - I'll see you Monday?"  
  
"Yeah. Bye, Stiles." Danny walks back to his car and smiles at Stiles over the hood before he gets in.  
  
His dad isn't home yet, so Stiles heads up to his room fully intending to linger on that kiss for a while. A long while. Maybe a couple whiles. When he gets there, though, the window is open, the scanner is on at minimum volume, and hey, Derek's sitting there in the dark again.  
  
"I am Jack's total lack of surprise," Stiles mumbles as he turns on the light. Of course, Derek can hear him, so he gets an incredulous eyebrow. "No, really. I think at this point my complete desensitization to you lurking reflects poorly on _you_. Like, you can't even startle some excitable kid with your creeperness. Way to go dude. There Was An Attempt star for you." Derek's cheeks are hollowing. Stiles is fairly sure that means he's trying hard to resist the urge to tear out his throat and bathe in the blood. He doesn't move though, so Stiles keeps going. "Seriously, we need to assimilate you back into the real world. Doors, stairs, lights, all things you should really learn to use, even if whatever rundown lair you're squatting in now doesn't have them."  
  
Derek clenches his jaw, his eyebrows furrow further, and he finally stands to loom over Stiles who falls fairly quickly into retreat. Because, really, he might not fear for his life around Derek anymore, but he definitely still fears for his health. Once he's safely seated in his computer chair, Derek takes a spot in the middle of the room in his usual stance, which Stiles' brain helpfully suggests looks like he's wearing a spreader bar.  
  
"I sent Erica for you." Yes. Good. Irritation is a far safer response than the images that that thought had conjured up.  
  
"And I told her I was busy."  
  
"You really think that's a good idea? Getting someone else involved in this?"  
  
"What, you think I told him about werewolves or something? Danny is _so_ not involved in this. It's kind of awesome actually."  
  
"You're going out with-" Derek shakes his head. "Don't be ignorant, Stiles," he snaps, taking a step forward. "The rogue alpha saw you, smelled you, knows you're with us. He's just as likely to attack you as he is any of us. More, since you're human and vulnerable. If you really want to keep him out of this, you need to not be seen with him again. Otherwise he can be used against you."  
  
Stiles knows he's been kind of naive and a bit in denial to not consider that, but at the same time, he and Danny have been hanging out for weeks. Anything he does to change their relationship at this point will probably be too little too late. And frankly, Stiles isn't willing to lose one of the few friends he has. Tomorrow he'll talk to Scott about watching out for Danny, and Scott will talk to Isaac. It's not much, but it'll have to do. He doesn't say anything and Derek doesn't push it any further.  
  
"You should also be careful with Argent," he says instead, in a masterful example of topic change. "He-"  
  
"Yeah, yeah. I'm well aware of your Argent paranoia. Which, okay, pretty valid at this point, but you don't need to worry about me telling him anything or turning to the 'light side' or whatever. He doesn't want anything from me yet, he just offered me hunter training since I'm, as you said, involved and vulnerable. More like training _against_ hunters, if you ask me. No werewolf I've met actually bothers to tie people up."  
  
"Give it time," Derek responds flatly, but doesn't say anything else about it as he moves to the window. In fact, he doesn't say anything about anything.  
  
"Hey, what did you need me for?"  
  
Derek pauses, stares back at him for a few nerve wracking seconds, then shakes his head. "Keep an eye on Scott if Peter shows up." And then he's gone. Stiles immediately steps forward to shut the window and latch it, then grabs a spool of wire and starts setting up the next, likely ineffective, wolf trap.  
  
\---------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Lydia resumes their bestiary study sessions on Saturday, just over a week later. In the meanwhile, he's trained with the Argents twice more (Chris, as he's been told to call Mr. Argent, is even more fond of suicide runs than Finstock), had a session with Deaton about identifying various helpful, local plants (that ended in him with and Scott traipsing through the woods to find potentilla), started cross country practices (where the summer of practice and recent double dosage of suicide runs left Coach somewhat impressed), and made out with Danny a few more times (which was _awesome_ ).  
  
By this point Stiles has picked up enough Latin that he's helping translate, but he still needs to double check most words and run it by Lydia every few paragraphs. Which probably makes it slower going than if she'd just do it all herself, but he's not going to mention that out of a desire to keep his balls.  
  
"You should be further than this," Lydia says when he shows her his progress. She doesn't sound angry, though, so he thinks he may last the night. "Too busy checking Danny for tonsillitis?" Teasing. That's what that tone is. She's teasing him.  
  
Crazy.  
  
"Well, you know, can never be too careful. Really, though. I wish that was the main reason. Instead I'm running five miles for Coach every other day and getting kidnapped by Allison's dad here and there." It's possible there was a better way to say that. Oh well.  
  
"Excuse me, _what?_ "  
  
"So, apparently I'm getting trained by Chris Argent so I can maybe hold my own against the supernatural beasties that munch on the innocent townsfolk of Beacon Hills every day that ends in y." It's not a question. It's hard to not make it sound like one.  
  
"And you didn't think to tell me this?" He didn't actually. He doesn't know why he should have. They're kind of friends now. They even eat together at lunch occasionally, when he sits by Danny. What they don't really do is talk about anything besides the bestiary, latin conjugations, and sometimes Stiles' poor fashion choices.  
  
"Sorry?" She purses her lips. He fears for his anatomy.  
  
"I want in."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I. Want. In. Tell Mr. Argent. I'll talk to Allison. I am _not_ going to be the damsel in distress." He nods and thinks about how out of their depth they are in this whole mess. And how they, at least, know what's out there and can take precautions to protect themselves.  
  
"Hey, what kind of jewelry do you think Danny would wear?"  
  
\-------------------------------------  
  
  
Stiles is kind of miffed the day he and Danny have their third official date. Lydia had started hunter training and felt the need to inform him that escaping the ropes really wasn't that hard. She didn't know what he was complaining about. Some awkward prying in certain places and the knots will practically fall off. Barely took her an hour.  
  
Allison, it seems, is equally vexed. She texts him that at least he kept his head. Lydia spent like fifteen minutes freaking out. It helps until he realizes that means it actually only took her forty-five minutes to get the ropes off. He scowls at his phone until Danny climbs in the passenger side of his jeep.  
  
"What's up?" he asks.  
  
"What? Nothing. Just, you know, Lydia being the best at everything again." Danny nods in commiseration.  
  
They grab dinner at one of the nicer restaurants, though it doesn't take nearly as long as they expected. Danny suggests a hike in the woods before their movie, which strikes Stiles as a phenomenally bad idea, but when has he ever shied away from a bad idea? It's still daylight for a few more hours, and they're sticking to the well trodden paths near the edge of the preserve, likely within yelling distance of someone. He won't ask what's the worst that could happen, since that's just asking for it, and does, in fact, imagine some of the worst. The likely scenarios pale in comparison to those, so he figures he can handle whatever jumps them. Danny has none of these worries. He takes off, prepared to have a good time with his boyfriend, and Stiles is more than willing to follow along... even if he is making mental notes on the bit of yarrow they pass.  
  
Twenty minutes in, they reach the base of a tall hill, the top of which Stiles knows has an awesome view. Danny stops and turns to him with a grin that says he's plotting something.  
  
"Race you to the top," he says as he takes off. Stiles loses half a second to surprise, but his recent exercise regimen has done wonders. He catches up to Danny a minute later and pulls himself over the edge to the top a couple seconds ahead. A few steps in, he drops to the ground, laying on his back and staring up at the sky.  
  
"Well," he says, smiling up at Danny who takes a seat beside him. "What do I win?"  
  
Danny grins again, leaning over to kiss him; shallow at first while they catch their breath. Then he moves to straddle Stiles' waist and deepens it. He kisses across his jaw and down his neck where he drags his tongue along the tendon and spends some time making what is sure to be a fantastic hickey tomorrow. Detaching himself, he moves further down Stiles' torso, lifting up his shirt to press kisses along Stiles' side as he palms his crotch and undoes his pants.  
  
Stiles doesn't know what to do, what he _should_ do, besides the groaning and twitching ( _so_ not "writhing," he's not in a porno) that he can't help. So he absently grasps around him for a handhold and thinks he's going to have so much detritus in his hair and clothes tonight, but when Danny finally licks along the bottom of his cock and takes him in his mouth, one hand flies to Danny's hair and he doesn't really care about anything else.  
  
Turns out sex is really good at keeping him focused, the pleasure builds and he knows he's emitting some noises he would rather not think about later, but all he can do is whisper a soft "fuck" and whimper when Danny pulls back to nip at his hip bone. He swears he's so close. Please. Just a bit more.  
  
"You know," Danny says, laughing a bit, but looking _god_ so hot when Stiles pries his eyes open against the torture. "You once told me I should devote my life to celibacy." Stiles almost panics, because that's just the sort of thing someone would say if they were about to leave him there, so hard it hurts, to take care of himself. Danny doesn't move, though, except to suck another hickey on his hip.  
  
"I take it back. Dear god, I take it back." And Danny smiles and devours him again. After he comes, he pulls Danny up beside him, kisses him and tastes himself on his tongue (and that's weird) and slips his hand down Danny's pants to bring him off as well.  
  
Sex is awesome.  
  
They lay there for a few minutes, until lying on uneven ground gets too uncomfortable. Then Danny takes off his shirt to clean himself up (he has a spare back in the Jeep, and really, who besides Finstock would ever want Danny to put a shirt _on?)_ and they move up a little further, to sit and enjoy the view through the afterglow.  
  
That's when Stiles stumbles over the dead body.  
  
"Welp. Afterglow's gone."  
  
  
It takes almost an hour for his dad and a few deputies to arrive on the scene. In that time he talks Danny down from a major freakout and has a minor one himself. They set up camp at the bottom of the hill, partly to make it easier for the cops to find, partly to be away from the body. Stiles can only blame hormones and being upwind for them not noticing it sooner. The stench is awful. Danny lost most of his dinner. He looks at Stiles with this expression that's part resignation, part frightened disbelief when he goes to check the body again. But Stiles needs to see the wound, to figure out what caused it, and to make sure the body doesn't disappear when they're not looking.  
  
Someone leads Danny away once the authorities get there, likely to take a statement and make sure he's not in shock or something. His mom is already on her way. Stiles' dad goes to look at the body first, while a deputy takes his statement, before coming back to talk to him. The sheriff looks lost and a little disappointed. He doesn't say anything for a while.  
  
"Dad, I swear I had nothing to do with this one."  
  
" _This one?_ " Stiles flinches.  
  
"That's not what I meant. You know that's not what I meant."  
  
"Do I?" his dad asks, voice quiet, and that's always been worse than the yelling. "Do I really, Stiles? Because I've nearly lost count of the number of crime scenes I've found you at this year. Tell me, if three's a pattern, what am I supposed to do with thirteen? You don't talk to me anymore, you lie all the time, you turn up at crime scenes right and left, and I don't know what to do. So please, tell me what you meant."  
  
"I just," Stiles chokes on the words. "I- You know I go looking for trouble. This- this year it just keeps finding me. And I'm sorry. I know this is all bad for you, and I'm _so sorry_. But I didn't go looking for this. You can ask Danny. I've been with him all night. We were just- we were on a date, and then I tripped over that guy's arm and I don't- I don't know why this keeps happening, but I swear I didn't go looking for it this time, Dad. And _I'm sorry._ "  
  
His dad stares at him for a moment longer before stepping forward and pulling him into a hug. And god, it's the best thing that's happened to Stiles in months.  
  
"I know, son," he says after a good minute of bear hug. He lets Stiles go and withdraws a step, now just resting a hand on his son's shoulder. "We need to talk, but right now I've got dead bodies on my plate. So _you_ are going to get in your jeep and drive home and stay there this weekend." Bodies, he said. Bodies was plural.  
  
"Bod-" Stiles starts to ask, but the glare his dad gives him makes him rethink that course of action. "Right. Home. House arrest. Excellent idea, father mine. I'll just, get right on that." He starts walking backward in retreat, slightly afraid to turn his back on that stare. So he catches the exact moment when his dad's expression morphs to confusion and disbelief.  
  
"Wait, you're going out with _Danny?_ " Stiles really wishes people would stop saying that like it was some outrageous concept. It was not doing his self esteem any favors. He doesn't know how to respond, though. Especially since they've basically been together for six weeks and he hadn't told his dad before this. He grimaces, opens his mouth and nothing comes out.  
  
"Yes?" he says finally. His dad runs a hand over his face.  
  
"Home. Now. And stay there. I get the feeling there's a lot more we need to talk about than I thought." Stiles nods and takes off for his jeep. When he gets home, he barely manages to get his debris-laden clothes off before he collapses on the bed and passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on tumblr [here.](http://wolftraps.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a description of a panic attack in this chapter than I'm told can be distressing.

"My dad and I, we still don't really talk these days."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Well, he's working a lot right now, with everything that's going on. And that's not the problem. Seriously. It's just, we don't have much time together. And there's- there's still a lot I can't tell him."

"Can't or won't?" Stiles fiddles with the strap of his bag and tries to still his leg when he realizes it's been jittering. That doesn't last long. Sitting still is hard, especially when there so many places you'd rather be than where you are. Turns out appearances at multiple crime scenes and tripping over a dead body qualifies you for mandatory counseling sessions. Ms. Morrell has a strange way of getting you to keep talking to her while still being entirely disconcerting.

Stiles doesn't trust her. He and Lydia have commiserated on this.

"I don't know. Both, I guess. There's some things I _want_ to tell him. Like, sometimes things will happen and I just go 'what would Dad do?' But I think that if I did tell him, ask him, it would just make things that much worse."

"What sort of things? Your relationship with Danny?"

"What? No. Dad doesn't care about that. He's a little pissed I waited weeks to tell him, but that's all fine."

"So what sort of things are you afraid to tell him?" Stiles opens his mouth to respond, but doesn't actually say anything for a minute. There are things he could tell her, how he worries his dad blames him for his mom's death or that he thinks he might lose his dad every time he sees the bottle of Jack on the table, that don't involve any of the abundant supernatural issues. But if he can't say these things to his _dad_ , why would he tell this woman whose voice sometimes makes his skin crawl?

"I'd rather not talk about it."

\----------------------------------------

 

The talk Stiles and his dad are supposed to have never winds up happening. Three bodies have been found (two in the preserve, though miles from each other, and one in downtown Beacon Hills), all practically shredded. Since Stiles was in school or with Danny when they all probably took place, his dad lets him off the hook; even if Stiles knows _he_ knows Stiles is lying when he says he knows nothing about the deaths.

Stiles is 99.9% sure it was Death by Werewolf, most common cause of unnatural death in Beacon Hills since 2011. Ethan is still out there, after all, and there's a good chance the county's wolf population is going to be spiking. Maybe the kills are initiation for his new pack, maybe he's gone crazy, who the hell knows. Stiles is kind of relieved when Danny shows up at school looking no worse for wear and vetoes any more nature hikes with good humor. He'd rather Danny wasn't out there.

After counseling, he heads to the lunchroom to meet up with Scott, who practically runs into him as he's walking through the door.

"Whoa, dude, know you've got all sorts of super senses now, but maybe you should pay a little more attention to your eyes." Scott ignores him, looking panicked.

"Dr. Fenris is dead."

"What?" Stiles grabs his arm and pulls him in the cafeteria to a table, out of the way of everyone trying to leave. They sit across from each other and lean their heads in. Lydia says it makes them look like they're either plotting or whispering sweet nothings to each other. Right now, Stiles doesn't care. "When? How do you know? What happened?"

"I don't know. My mom just texted me that she was going to be working late 'cause one of the doctors died the other day. When I asked who she said him." Stiles doesn't know if this is one of the deaths his dad is already dealing with or a new one, but he highly doubts it's a coincidence.

\-------------------------

  
Loaded with chicken sandwiches, veggies and curly fries, Stiles navigates through the station. As usual, he gets a pretty mixed reception from the others there. There's the old timers, who watched him grow up and tend to give him that same awful disappointed look his dad gets. The ones who've been there for a couple years mostly don't trust him. The new ones, who he helped learn their way around over the summer, are about the only ones who smile at him anymore.

The price you pay to keep people safe.

When he shoulders through the door to his dad's office, though, the sheriff looks pleasantly surprised. It makes Stiles feel glad and guilty all at once. There's a mound of paperwork on the desk, as per usual, but nothing pinned to the wall, so no patterns yet besides being mauled to death.

"I need to make sure you're eating right," Stiles says, putting the takeout box down in the small space his dad manages to clear and pulling up a chair for himself.

"I'd complain about the rabbit food, but I'm starving. Didn't even manage to grab lunch today." He takes a bite of his sandwich but doesn't stop reading through papers.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse," Dad puts the food and file down and runs his hands over his tired face. "Two more bodies have been found across the county, one older, one fresher, both torn to shreds."

"Do they think it's another mountain lion, or...?"

"I'm not discussing details of a case with you, Stiles."

"You think it's _murder_?"

"I never said that."

"Yeah, but if they were just animal attacks you'd have no problem telling me. Have you identified all the bodies? Are they really animal marks? Is there a pattern? Tell me there's a pattern." He leans up over the desk to get a look at whatever reports he can. It's not much, he only gets about fifteen seconds before his dad pushes him back down in his chair, but the word "exsanguinated" and a photo of some weird symbol stand out.

"I'm not sharing the details of an investigation with you," his dad repeats, but he looks more amused than angry, so that's good. "Now don't you have homework to get to?" Stiles doesn't push it. He nods and takes his leave, reminding his dad to actually eat the vegetables.

He makes it as far as the door. "Stiles." Stiles turns back to find his dad standing now, moving toward him, crossing his arms. "I'm sorry I'm not home more. But please, for me, try to stay out of trouble and don't go digging in this." Stiles nods, but doesn't say anything. If this is Ethan's work, he's already at risk and in deep. He gets the door open about an inch before his dad reaches over and shuts it again. He looks more worried than stern. "I'm serious. I feel like, one of these days I'm going to find you at a crime scene, and you'll be either the victim or the perp, and that scares the hell out of me. Can you promise me that won't happen?"

He can't. Stiles stands there, mouth open, searching for something to say, a little too long.

"I didn't think so." His dad goes back to his desk and Stiles heads out to the Jeep wondering if any of this is really worth the consequences.

\--------------------------------------------

  
  
Thursday, Stiles and Danny have their first date since the "blow job at a crime scene" incident. This date is far less exciting. Also less traumatizing. Stiles supposes it's a fair trade. Towards the end of dinner, once they run out of Finstock stories and finish comparing childhood cartoon favorites, Stiles finally broaches the subject he's been sitting on all week. He's hit dead end after dead end and needs to know what his options are.

"I have a scenario for you," he says, and Danny nods for him to continue. "So, if someone were to theoretically ask you to hack into the sheriff's department computer system, could you do it?"

"No." Danny says flatly.

"No, you _couldn't_ do it?"

"I would need some sort of physical access to the network, and even if I could get that, I wouldn't do it." It's probably time to back off, but Stiles has never really been one to just drop something.

"Not for anything?"

"No, Stiles. I am _not_ hacking the police for you." Danny sighs, ripping apart a fry but not actually eating it. "And I know you have your weird ways of being persistent and creative and getting me to do things I tell you I won't do, but I _really_ don't want to do this. So I'm asking you, please just let it go... if you do I'll give you a hand job during the movie."

"Deal," Stiles says instantly. He'll have to go about getting the information the hard way now, but he's not enough of a douche that he'll pressure Danny into doing something illegal. "Though, did you just imply that you're helpless to resist me? Why didn't I know this? All those missed opportunities."

"Shut up, Stiles," Danny laughs, then gets serious. "Really, though, about you looking up my arrest record. Can that, like, never be brought up again?"

"Yeah, of course. But hey, I guess we've both got records now." What a bonding point.

"Because you kidnapped my best friend."

"Uhhh... about that." Stiles tenses up, completely at a loss as to what to say. He's definitely not ready to tell Danny about all the things that go bump in the night around Beacon Hills. If things could just stay normal in this one area of his life.

"Don't tell me," Danny says quickly, and Stiles barely resists a sigh of relief. "Seriously, I don't want to know. It's pretty obvious you've all been involved in some weird shit this year, but if there's one thing being arrested taught me, it's to keep a low profile and not go snooping where I shouldn't. I'm not asking, so please don't tell me."

"Waiting for the movie. I get it." Stiles nods, sinking back into his seat. "Oh, I almost forgot, I have something for you." He's been carrying the little green bag around in his pocket for about a week, fiddling with it, preparing it, and trying to figure out how to give it to Danny. The fidgeting starts as soon as he passes it over.

"A necklace?" Danny questions, pulling the string of beads from the bag with a brief glance to Stiles.

"Yeah. Lydia helped me pick it out. It's amber, um, it's generally associated with healing and protection. So, it's kind of like a good luck charm?" And Stiles spent days figuring out how to get it to hold energy without his active interference. It wouldn't keep Danny from getting hurt, but hopefully he wouldn't get hurt _as bad_ , and he'd heal from it faster.

"Never pegged you for the superstitious sort." Oh God, Danny probably thinks he's a freak now.

“I’m not! Not usually. It’s just that finding dead bodies can kind of be seen as really bad luck and I wanted you to have a thing that was like, maybe, about not having that kind of thing happen? The dead bodies, I mean, not the blow jobs, because that was awesome and seriously needs to happen again." Danny kicks his jittering leg under the table.

"Stiles, it's okay. I like it. Anyway, my mom's all like anti-science and medicine. Compared to that, believing in good luck charms is nothing. I reserve the right to judge you if you start avoiding black cats and ladders, though."

"Fair enough. You gonna eat your fries?"

\-----------------------------

 

By Saturday, Stiles isn't feeling any better about anything, except for Danny since things there are firmly back in " _awesome_ " territory. He's found nothing on the symbol from the picture, nothing on why the ash failed, nothing in the bestiary, and he's generally feeling pretty useless and kind of like a sitting duck.

"Are vampires real?" he opens when he walks into the animal clinic to find Deaton restocking. So it's not like he's interrupting anything important. He grabs a broom to start sweeping.

"No." Abrupt, but the vet sounds amused.

"Oh... Are you sure?"

"Quite."

"What, so werewolves and kanima and yeti, oh my, are fine. But vampires? No, of course not, Stiles, that's just ridiculous."

"Apparently so." Deaton is silently laughing at him, Stiles knows he is. The vet puts the last vial on the shelf and passes the empty cardboard box to Stiles to break down. "Is this because of the recent attacks?"

"You know about them?" _Say you know something,_ Stiles pleads. _Anything._

"I know they occurred, but not much more than that. Thankfully, your father seems to have given up on having me identify wild animal attacks." Damn.

"That's probably because he doesn't think it is one." Deaton looks up at him from whatever he's doing with a mortar and pestle and a jar of purple something (it smells like the guy's locker room, Stiles is pretty sure he doesn't want to know) and gestures for him to continue. "All that I could gather, even with my legendary investigative skills, is that the bodies have all been drained of blood and branded with this odd symbol." Stiles sets the broom against a counter and pulls the approximation he sketched out of his bag. "Have you seen it before? Is it, like, some magic rune or something?"

 

Deaton takes the paper, but shakes his head. "Tell me, Stiles." And his tone has changed, along with the way he's looking at Stiles (more contemplative and mentorish), so Stiles knows they're not talking about the attacks anymore. "What is it you think I've been teaching you here?"

"Oh no. Is this the wax on, wax off speech? I'm pretty sure my sweeping hasn't allowed me to master the crane stance, Mr. Miyagi." Deaton just raises his eyebrows judgingly. "I don't know. Magic, I guess."

"Yes, and at the same time, very much no. Magic, as it is frequently portrayed, is not a skill accessible to humans, who are, at their essence, natural beings." Stiles scoffs. "For a given definition of natural. Words, spoken and written, are human constructs and therefore have no innate power, only the meaning we give them. What humans _do_ have is resourcefulness, imagination, and a strength of will that is hard to match."

Going to the back of the room, Deaton reaches into a drawer and pulls out a glow stick. (A _glow stick._ Why the hell would you have a glow stick in an animal clinic?) "With these characteristics, certain humans can act as a sort of catalyst, bringing forth properties of many plants or objects that would otherwise remain dormant." He snaps the stick in demonstration and green light shines out. "The power and extent of these properties depends on the creativity and strength of belief in the person bringing them out."

"I do believe in fairies," Stiles says. "I do, I do."

"Yes, well, fairies don't actually need you to believe in them. They have a magic of their own that may negate many other kinds. But the idea is the same. It all depends on how strongly you believe, how strong you yourself are, and your choice of materials." Deaton gives a pointed look at the broom behind Stiles and disposes of the glow stick (Stiles decides he's not even going to ask) once he starts sweeping again.

"So is that what nulled the ash? A fairie?"

"No, I don't believe so. I believe that may have been the work of another human such as you or I, in alliance with the alpha pack. This person is stronger than you, capable of undoing your work. You should exercise some caution." The sound of a door opening comes through from the back. "Why don't you help Scott with the bird cages and we'll talk about identifying items that have been empowered."

\-----------------------------------

 

Lydia shows up at Stiles' house later Saturday night, as irked as he is tired. Apparently, suicide runs don't agree with her, she refuses to touch a bow, and her aim with a gun is crap. Stabbing Chris Argent is the only thought that gets her through training. Part of Stiles wants to take a vindictive joy in her failure, since Deaton just suggested he do even _more_ exercise and meditation and all he really wants to do is jerk off to the memory of his boyfriend blowing him and fall asleep, but none of that is Lydia's fault. So instead he makes a sympathetic noise and starts translating the next section of the bestiary.

Ten minutes in, he gives up.

"We've been working on this for months," Stiles complains, shutting the laptop and flopping back to lay crossways on his bed. His head falls back over the edge and is going to start rushing from the blood pretty quick but it’s better than staring blankly at another useless word of a dead language, so whatever. "Shouldn't we have gotten somewhere by now?"

He can't see Lydia's face well from this position, but he can tell from her voice that she looks unimpressed. Possibly annoyed. He's pretty sure it's not entirely intended for him.

"This thing is over a thousand pages of complaining and bragging in archaic Latin. Sorting out the real information is an exercise in saint-like patience. Be glad we've gotten as far as we have. These hunters _really_ need to get over themselves." She sits back and purses her lips, glaring at the screen as if willing it to translate itself. Stiles wouldn't be surprised if it did. If anyone could manage it, Lydia would. "They weren't even Roman. The Argents are all French. They couldn't have written their stupid little monster book in _French?_ "

"And let just anyone read their bitchfest? Come on, Lydia, they've got to stay mysterious. Hasn't Chris hit you with the rabid dog talk?"

"Ugh, _yes._ He really needs some new material. That line is getting really old, just like reading the Argent family diary. Could these people be any more tedious? There has got to be a better paranormal compendium than this." She appears to give up on reading, then, choosing instead to start poking at the various items on his desk and rifling through his papers. He'd say she won't find anything more interesting in there, but considering how awful some of the bestiary articles are, she just might.

"There might be," Stiles admits. "We'd have to talk to Derek or Peter about it, though."

"We?" Lydia asks, still not visibly paying him any mind. It takes Stiles about three seconds to figure out what she's implying.

"What? Oh, come on," he whines, sitting up straight to stare imploringly at her back. The only thing it gets him is headrush. "You aren't seriously going to send me in to face Sass and Sassier on my own. If Derek doesn't rip my throat out, Peter will make bitchy, condescending comments until I retreat or my head explodes. Either way, I'm dead or scarred for life and you don't get any information." She spins around to look at him finally, expression entirely unsympathetic, and shrugs carelessly.

"That's your problem."

"But-"

"Nope."

"Lydia!"

"Have fun." Gritting his teeth and growling in frustration, he concedes defeat, flopping back across the bed again. Headrush is better than dealing with Lydia.

"You are the source of all evil," he says into his hands as he runs them down his face. "I lied when I told Scott it was only 50%. You are actually the devil."

"It's a thankless job, but somebody's got to do it, and I look fabulous in Prada. Now stop sulking and tell me what this is." When he pulls himself back up and his vision stops swaying, he's faced with a copy of the symbol from the bodies.

"Verdict's still out. It was found carved into at least one of the bodies that have been popping up. I couldn't find anything on it and Deaton... well, he didn't actually answer me about it." Lydia studies it for a couple moments, looking confused. "Do _you_ know what it is?"

"Educated guess says a mix of the letters for alpha and omega. That or someone with an A name really likes horseshoes." She goes silent, still staring at the paper.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just- I don't think I've ever seen this before, but it looks so familiar."

\-----------------------------------------

 

Going to track down Derek and Peter is not at the top of Stiles to do list. He's rather hoping it will become one of those 'ignore it 'til it goes away' problems, though that's probably just wishful thinking. Anyway, Scott says Isaac says that Peter isn't staying with Derek anymore. Something about the risks of keeping two alphas in close quarters. As far as Stiles is aware, they've worked out some kind of agreement and still work together often enough as long as Peter doesn't try to steal the pack or claim the territory.

Lydia's theory about the symbol seems pretty valid and lends credence to Stiles' belief that Ethan is behind the recent attacks, though no one has caught any trace of him. A werewolf without a pack is an omega, after all, even if he or she would be an alpha. The question still remains, though, _why_ these people are being killed.

Listening to the police scanner every night has become somewhat of a habit, though he won't admit he always kind of expects Derek to turn up when the sun sets, so Stiles flips it on and pulls out his physics homework before video calling Scott.

"You ready for this, dude?" he asks with a grin.

"No." Scott pouts. He looks miserable. It's hilarious.

Since the supernatural variety hour has decided to space out airings, Scott's grades have drastically improved, but he still has some issues. It probably helps that his study sessions with Stiles actually happen and don't devolve into sex like the ones he had with Allison always did.

They make it through half the homework (with some interruptions to share amusing links, since Stiles hasn't had any Adderall today) before the commotion starts. Sound from the scanner seems to get louder. His brain translates the codes automatically.

Murder, someone says.

Suspect fleeing the scene.

Car in pursuit.

Paramedics needed.

Officer down.

Officer down.

Officer down.

Stiles can't breathe. His dad is patrolling tonight. There's a crazy werewolf on the loose who might target Stiles. Murder, they said. Officer down.

Stiles hasn't had a panic attack for over a year, but he knows the signs. Shortness of breath, chest pains, numbness settling in the limbs, that disconnect from the world where nothing is real and everything is too loud but nothing makes any sense. None of it makes any difference, though. Knowing you're having a panic attack doesn't stop it from happening.

Officer down. He can't breathe.

Scott's calling his name. He's saying something, but Stiles can't seem to attach any meaning to the words. He can't bother with that right now.

At some point he winds up on the floor and he sets himself against the baseboard of his bed. After that, he can't seem to move anymore. He holds his breath for a ten count, until his head threatens to start spinning enough to nauseate him, then lets it out. Breathing is still hard, it feels like he's been stabbed in the chest, it's hard to think, but he's not on the verge of hyperventilating anymore.

 _Just focus on your breathing_ , he thinks. _It's going to be okay. Just listen. Listen, Stiles._

Except it's not him thinking that. There's someone else there, kneeling beside him; not touching, but close enough that he can feel their body heat.

"Listen, Stiles," Isaac says again.

"10-4," his dad says over the scanner, serious but not strained at all as it would be if he were hurt.

"Listen," says Isaac.

"I'm on route," says his dad. Alive.

It's still hard to breathe. His chest still feels like it might implode. Everything is still a little too loud, a little too muffled. He shivers. _Officer down,_ his mind still says, but he heard his dad's voice, so the rational part of his brain is starting to kick back online. Stiles grabs Isaac's arm, to feel someone there with him, to fight the feeling of being totally alone, to maybe steal a bit of warmth, and holds his breath again.

He breathes. Slowly, and he has to fend off hyperventilation a couple more times, but he breathes. It gets a little easier each time his dad's voice comes through the speaker. Isaac disappears once his arm is released and returns with a glass of water and a couple melatonin. Stiles takes the water, but waves the pills off. He's not sleeping until he sees his dad walk through the door.

Scott is still on the video call, obviously a little freaked out. He was the one who sent Isaac over. Would have come himself, but he wasn't willing to end the call in case Stiles passed out and needed an ambulance. Once Stiles is speaking again, he disappears from view, only to come through the window seven minutes later. Scott and Isaac both stay until Scott hears the sheriff's car down the road.

Every so often, Scott does something to remind Stiles that he's the best friend in the world.

When Sheriff Stilinski gets home around two in the morning, he's greeted with the mother of all bear hugs. He returns the embrace automatically, though Stiles knows he's confused. Three minutes later, when Stiles finally loosens his grip, his dad backs up with a question poised on the tip of his tongue. One look at his son's face has him dropping it and pulling Stiles into another hug.

\------------------------

 

The building is old, one of those abandoned warehouses refurbished into artistic studio lofts. Stiles isn't sure whether it surprises him or not. On the one hand, it seems too... civilized. It is, after all, an actual apartment, with running water and working lights. On the other hand, Derek _would_ go for an apartment that used to be an abandoned building.

Stiles kind of wishes he could steal in through the window, but he doesn't know which one and, well, it's apparently a second floor apartment. At least it has shitty enough security that he doesn't have to be buzzed up, though he has little enough hope for a stealth attack when dealing with a werewolf.

And to rip that little hope to shreds, Derek opens the door right as Stiles reaches it.

"What do you-" Derek stops, staring at Stiles in what may actually be confusion. Or maybe its indigestion. Either way, it's an expression Stiles has never seen on Derek before. "Stiles."

Stiles leans back a little with a close mouthed smile and gives him jazz hands. "Surprise?"

"What are you doing here?" Derek still has one hand on the door, the other braced against the door jamb, blocking the entrance. His eyes do a quick scan of the hall behind Stiles.

"I take it you were expecting someone else?"

"No." And that is totally a bald-faced lie. Stiles thinks he might be offended. "Why are you here?"

"Are you going to let me in?"

"No. Tell me what you want and leave."

"Rude much? It's almost like you were raised by wolves." Derek isn't amused, and he doesn't budge. "Okay, fine. Let's let your neighbors hear all about the werewolves killing the good countyfolk and the witch that's working with them and the occult-"

Derek reaches out to grab Stiles by the back of the neck. For a second, Stiles expects for his head to get well acquainted with the door jamb, but Derek bypasses it completely, pulling him in and depositing him on the single leather couch (that has to be "reclaimed" because even a thrift store wouldn't take _that_ ). The rest of the apartment, as far as Stiles can see, is pretty bare.

"Did you get a Spartan to do your decorating?" he asks, and Derek gives him The Eyebrows.

"There's nothing wrong with my apartment."

"Well, I suppose you have unrealistic enough abs to be a Spartan." Perhaps Stiles should reconsider trying to get a brain to mouth filter.

Derek just purses his lips in standard 'your voice is the greatest agony I have had to live through and my family died in a fire' form. "Why are you here, Stiles? And who told you where... Erica."

"Erica," Stiles agrees. He tries to make himself more comfortable in spite of the warped padding. It doesn't work. He considers making a comment on the hospitality, but another glance at Derek makes him decide against it. He licks his lips. "I need to know what you know about what's going on around here."

"Why?" Stiles' mouth falls open and his eyebrows furrow in disbelief.

"I'm writing an article for the school paper. What do you mean 'why'? How about because there's a crazy werewolf serial killer on the loose in the city in which I live? Maybe 'cause I have reason to believe said werewolf would love nothing more than to wear my innards as a hat. Or because the last time we spoke you told me to break up with my boyfriend for his own good and left with some cryptic bullshit comment about watching my best friend around your creepy, undead, newly re-alpha-ed uncle. Is that enough reason for you?" Derek crosses his arms and looks at Stiles like he doesn't believe him. And none of that was a lie, so how the hell does he always _know_?

Stiles sits forward, elbows on his knees, clenches his jaw and looks around for something to focus on other than Derek's permanently judging face. "Two policemen were attacked last night while investigating an anonymous tip about another body in the preserve. One of them died this morning; the other is in ICU, being kept under sedation." He gives up on searching the nearly empty room and look down at his hands instead, fiddling with the ring he's taken to wearing. "It could have been my dad... There's no separating myself from him, and I can't keep letting him go out there, knowing there's basically a target on his back. We need to figure out what is going on and stop it before more people die."

It turns out Derek knows even less than Stiles. The blood draining, the symbol, the enemy witch are all news to him. He's had the pack doing rounds, but they're still teenagers, with homework and families to answer to. Even then, none of them can seem to catch Ethan's scent, and the police have always secured the crime scenes before they get wind of the bodies. Derek doesn't know much about witches (probably about equivalent to Stiles now) but he thinks he or she may be responsible for the lack of scent. When they check out the crime scenes, after the sheriff's department has cleared out, there's always a trace of thyme in the air.

Which is unhelpful otherwise since anyone who's cooked recently may smell a bit of thyme.

At least Stiles can leave feeling slightly productive. When he mentions asking Peter about the Hale compendium, Derek disappears for a couple minutes. Stiles fumbles to catch the flash drive thrown at him upon Derek's return.

"Don't lose it, and don't broadcast that you have it. You and Scott need to stay away from Peter."

"Not that I'm gnawing at the bit to spend quality time with your dear Uncle Scar, or anything, but _why_?"

"I took over as Scott's alpha when I killed Peter, but the bond between us is a very weak one. I don't know for sure, I've never heard of anything like this happening before, but there's a chance that Peter regained that link with Scott when he became an alpha again. He's still the one who bit him. If that's the case, he may be able to assert his will over Scott, like he did before." Well that was just the nightmare fuel Stiles needed on top of _everything else_.

He's at the door, letting himself out, when Derek calls his name. He's still standing in the same place, in the same stiff stance, staring intently at the place Stiles had been sitting. "You're right. You're involved and you need to be prepared... We train Sunday evenings at the old house. Bring Scott."

Stiles doesn't argue, just nods and pulls the door closed behind him, lamenting that his entire life has basically become training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on tumblr: [wolftraps](http://wolftraps.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

 Stiles doesn't get a chance to talk to Scott about training at school the next day. They don't share as many classes this year, and he disappears when lunch rolls around. Allison does, as well, so Stiles figures they're trying to talk it out again. He has lunch with Danny instead and makes plans to catch Scott after school. When lunch ends, though, all those plans, and basically his entire day, are ruined by the bane of his academic existence.  
  
"Mr. Stilinski," Harris' voice rings down the clearing hallway just as Danny pulls back from a kiss. "I had hoped your miraculous graduation from my class meant I would never again have to meet your vacant gaze, but of course I was wrong. This is not your home, Mr. Stilinski, and such displays should be kept _off_ school property. Detention, after school. I trust you haven't forgotten where my room is."  
  
"Wha- But you-" Stiles gives up on protesting quickly, though. He's long since learned it will only get him more detention.  
  
Harris glances back at Danny as he strides away in true Snape form. "I expected you to have higher standards, Mr. Mahealani." Danny is barely holding in the laughter by the time Harris is halfway down the hall.  
  
"Thanks so much," Stiles says flatly, grabbing what may or may not be the correct book for his next class and slamming his locker shut. "So glad to know my endless torment brings you such joy."  
  
"Stiles," Danny breathes, looking seconds from just doubling over laughing. "Harris' hatred of you will never not be hilarious." He kisses Stiles one last time, and starts walking backward down the hall toward his class. "Call me later. Have fun in eternal torment!"  
  
\------------------------------------------  
  
  
Harris keeps Stiles for two hours, so it's well after five by the time he pulls his jeep out of the school parking lot. Scott, reliable friend that he is, doesn't answer his phone any of the four times Stiles tries calling it. It's such a shock. After the fourth time, Stiles gives up. He's fairly sure Scott is working tonight, so he intends to stop by around seven, the end of Scott's shift, to give his friend a ride home. Anything concerning Scott and Derek is better dealt with in person.  
  
For now, he runs through a decent fast food place and brings his dad dinner at the station again. With a potential serial killer on the loose, four missing persons across the county, curfew to enforce, and being more short staffed than they already were, his dad is rarely off duty for more than the time he takes to sleep and shower. Dinner is about all the time Stiles gets to see him and they always take it at the station. All snooping is done as subtly as he possibly can now, though, his dad's patience with it running hazardously thin. Stiles has offered to help precisely once and won't risk trying again.  
  
An awkwardly silent forty-five minutes later, Stiles wishes his dad a good night, promises to get his homework done, and climbs back in his jeep. It's just before seven when he gets to the animal clinic and the sun is setting. The lobby light is off (expected since they close at six), but he goes to the front door anyway. Deaton isn't big on him letting himself in the back, and is less likely to excuse it than Mrs. McCall.  
  
The door isn't locked like it should be at this time. Instead, it's slightly ajar, the area around the lock bent and scratched. It's the sort of scene that makes the hair stand up on the back of any properly cautious person's neck. The kind that screams 'turn back now' (and possibly, considering this is Beacon Hills, 'beware of dog'). Stiles has a lifetime of ignoring those feelings under his belt, he sees no reason to stop now.  
  
When he opens the door, it doesn't make a sound. Chances are good this is because the bell that usually rings is lying crumpled under a chair on the far side of the room. Stiles freezes for a moment after easing the door mostly shut, cautiously listening, looking. There's rustling from further back, and he can hear the dogs going crazy, but the mountain ash gate is closed and Stiles can feel the power running through it when he runs his hand along the wood.  
  
Deaton is stronger than Stiles. Whatever mangled the door couldn't have passed this ward; they probably got frustrated and left with a warning for some ambiguous 'later'. He spares a brief moment to worry that he's wrong before going through the gate.  
  
"Hey, Scott?" he calls softly, shutting the gate behind him and powering it back up, just in case. He knows Deaton keeps some anti-supernatural weaponry around (he's seen the bat; he also knows Deaton doesn't play baseball), but none of it is in the lobby, so he inches tentatively into the exam room. There's little light in here, the setting sun casting almost nothing through the small, high windows. A faint glow is coming through from further back, but it's not enough to see by and Stiles eyes have some trouble adjusting. "Doc?"  
  
The barking tapers off as he takes his first step into the exam room. His second step yields a quiet splash. It's still too dark to make much out, but the puddle he steps in is dark. It's the smell, though, that puts the real dread in his chest. Stumbling back a bit and catching his side kind of painfully on the edge of the counter, he reaches a hand back and fumbles for the light switch. His eyes burn from the sudden change in luminosity, and as soon as they adjust he wishes he'd just left the damn light off.  
  
His first thought is that this doesn't fit the pattern. The second is that it's one thing to know how much blood is in the human body, but another thing completely to _see_ it. It's everywhere. Splattered on the walls, dripping off the exam table, pooling around the body.  
  
Deaton's body.  
  
Deaton is dead. Throat torn out, chest ripped to shreds, possibly missing some organs _dead_. The alpha-omega symbol has been carved into his forehead.  
  
Stiles gags and braces himself against the counter. He won't throw up, he refuses, but he closes his eyes against the sight and holds his sleeve against his nose as he goes for his phone. A growl from the doorway lets him know he shouldn't have assumed the coast was clear.  
  
"I'm gonna die," Stiles whispers to himself, looking up to meet the amber eyes of an unfamiliar werewolf. They stare at eachother for a few tense seconds, and Stiles isn't sure who moves first, or if they go at the same time, but the next few moments are as active as the ones preceding were static.  
  
As soon as Stiles sees the beta tense, he's moving, dropping his phone in favor of throwing himself across the counter for the jar of mountain ash Deaton keeps there. Claws sink into his calf as soon as his hands grasp cool glass, pulling him to the ground with a cry of pain. Tearing off the lid, and spilling more than he'd like, Stiles grabs a fistful of ash and tosses it in the wolf's face. It's not strong. Stiles can't think clear enough to empower it well, but it gets his attacker to back off and buys a few precious seconds. Scrambling back into the corner, Stiles lays the mountain ash in a quarter circle around him, running from wall to wall, and shoves as much will as he can muster into it.  
  
Breathing heavy, he pulls himself up and presses his back into the corner, half to put that extra few millimeters between him and the bloodthirsty werewolf and half to support himself since his injured leg currently doesn't seem to want to. At the same time, the beta shakes off the mountain ash and stands, shifting back into human form.  
  
"Well, that wasn't very nice," the man says, stalking toward Stiles and stopping a foot away, just at the edge of the ward. He rests a hand on the barrier and looks at it curiously, tilting his head in that animalistic way shapeshifters seem to have, before looking back at Stiles. He grins, showing off too long, too sharp canines. Stiles fights a shiver. "Interesting."  
  
"I know, right? They're offering me my own slot on Discovery and everything. You want my autograph, I can tell. Who should I make it out to?" Stiles chokes out, desperately trying to even his voice and not flinch at the proximity. "Henchman number five? Shame you get sent out to do all the boss' dirty work." The guy's eyes flash and he steps back with placating open hands, though Stiles just knows he'd be getting slammed harshly against something if the ash weren't there.  
  
"I just came to see the vet." Stiles is really getting sick of menacing werewolves who think they're witty. He straightens his spine, fighting a wince as he puts more weight on his injured leg and forces himself to stare the man in the eye.  
  
"Sorry, but the clinic is closed," he says, pushing 'keep him out' into the mountain ash. "Try coming back during business hours."  
  
They stare each other down for another couple minutes, the werewolf stepping forward to press against the barrier harder and Stiles trying to keep it stronger. A lifetime later, a cellphone starts ringing, and Stiles has a brief second of paralyzing fear that it's his and he's going to lose his best chance of calling for help before he realizes it's not one of his ring tones. Unknown Beta (Stiles mentally names him Dick) pulls a smartphone from his pocket and gives Stiles the 'hold that thought' finger before answering it.  
  
Werewolves these days.  
  
"It's done," he says, glancing back at Deaton's body with a satisfied smirk. "I came across something else. Another... Yes... Of course. I'm on my way." He smiles at Stiles, creepy even without the fangs. "Looks like you and I will have to get to know each other another time."  
  
"I'm just devastated," Stiles drawls. As soon as Dick disappears out the back, he sinks to the floor, clutching his legs close to avoid disrupting the mountain ash and struggling for the breath he didn't know he was missing. It's another five minutes of relative silence before he's willing to leave the security of his imaginary wall, and he retreats right back into it as soon as he retrieves his phone. It's coated in blood, which he wipes off with his overshirt, but it still seems to work fine. Which is good, since he really can't afford a new phone.  
  
He calls Scott first, with shaking fingers, listening for the sound of a ringtone from somewhere in the clinic. As soon as he hears the subtle change in sound that signifies someone picking up, he cuts them off. "If you dare hang up on me, Scott, so help me God, I will coat that bat your family loves so much in wolfsbane and beat you to death with it. I swear I will." There's a couple seconds of silence, during which Stiles tries to assure himself that it's Scott on the other end, and picking up means he's not bleeding out in the back room.  
  
"Okay?" Scott says hesitantly. "Stiles, are you okay?"  
  
"Ha! Am I okay, he asks." Stiles would concede to being a bit hysterical at this point. Also kind of light headed. "I'm just peachy, Scott. You know, it's not like I'm running into new werewolves or tripping over the dead body of my best friend's boss."  
  
" _What?_ Doctor Deaton is _dead_? Are you sure?"  
  
"No. I bet he usually purges his body of blood and vital organs. I'm sure he'll be good as new in the morning. Yes, I'm _sure._ "  
  
"Stiles what happened? Where are you?" Stiles explains as best he can and manages to convince Scott to tell Derek what happened instead of coming to the clinic. Then, once they hang up, he takes a deep breath and makes his second call.  
  
"Stiles," his dad says. "I just got home. Where are you?" Stiles exhales and lets his head fall back against the wall.  
  
"I need you to not freak out," he says, voice weak. There are shadows creeping at the edge of his vision. "But I'm at another crime scene."  
  
" _What?_ Where? Are you hurt?" Stiles doesn't actually want to make his dad panic.  
  
"I'm at the animal clinic. I thought Scott-  Anyway, my leg is pretty scratched up, but I'm okay. Doctor Deaton is dead, though."  
  
"Doctor-" the sheriff pauses, and Stiles can practically hear him trying to collect himself. "Are you going to tell me the truth about what happened?"  
  
"I think I might have to," Stiles admits, "but it can't go on the record." His leg is starting to throb as the adrenalin high winds down, and when he looks, his pant leg is fairly well saturated in his own blood. And his head is swimming. "Shit."  
  
"Stiles-" He can't let his dad know how bad it is.  
  
"The cops wouldn't believe me." He takes off his overshirt and wraps it around the wound as tight as he can manage, gritting his teeth.  
  
"Stiles, _I'm_ the cops."  
  
"I know. I know. But you'll believe Scott. And Mrs. McCall."  
  
"You got Melissa involved?"  
  
"Technically, Matt got her involved. But that doesn't matter. Just... I need your help, dad."  
  
\-----------------------------------  
  
  
Being present at a second crime scene, this one covered in his blood and prints, means Stiles isn't going to get away without being questioned. The state of his leg and blood loss mean they do it at the hospital. At least his dad knows he's been going over to the clinic on Saturdays for months, even if he doesn't know the real reason. As far as Stiles can figure, all his prints should be explained. It helps that there's no blood under Deaton's nails and the doctor doesn't believe his scratches could be from a human.  
  
The official story, that Stiles tells a couple deputies while trying to drink his weight in orange juice, is that he went there for Scott, found the busted door, and was attacked by some kind of animal. He can't identify it, since the light was out and it ran off after he kicked it in the snout, but best guess says canine. He thinks he might have heard a man's voice, but he was probably hallucinating, right? He saw Deaton after flipping on the light, called Scott to check he was okay, then called his dad (in case it comes to the point that they check his phone).  
  
He winds up getting 14 stitches in his leg, but there's no sign of fractures or anything and most of the cuts are fairly superficial. So they bandage it up, give him painkillers, antibiotics, and crutches and send him home with orders to stay off it and come back in a couple days for a recheck.  
  
The ride home is silent and awkward. Stiles knows what's coming and he just wishes it was over. He's exhausted and a bit woozy from the drugs. The clothes he was given at the hospital are ill-fitting and uncomfortable, but his own were covered in blood and confiscated.  
  
When they get home, his dad helps him inside, but Stiles makes a detour on the way to the living room to grab a bottle of jack and a glass from the kitchen. His dad gives him a disapproving look, but Stiles sets them on the coffee table anyway.  
  
"I think you're probably going to need it," he says, sitting down and hoping the room decides to stop swaying soon. "Tomorrow you should probably call Chris Argent. I have his number if you need it. He can- he can get you properly armed." Stiles can't seem to put any energy into his words. Maybe he left it all in the mountain ash, spread across the floor with Deaton's blood.  
  
The cops are going to find all the magicky-stuff he kept at the clinic. That... that could be bad.  
  
"Properly-" His dad drops into the chair across from him. "Stiles, what-"  
  
"Dad, please." And he must really look like shit because his dad falls silent instantly, expression settling into something along the lines of 'I'm worried you're about to keel over any second.' It's better than the anger or mistrust, but Stiles can't handle looking at it for long. He stares at his hands, twisting his ring around his finger. "Back in January, I dragged Scott out to the preserve to look for the other half of Laura Hale's body."  
  
\----------------------------  
  
  
Stiles talks for nearly an hour, telling his dad everything he can remember worth telling. And he knows his dad has questions, that he still doesn't really believe what Stiles is saying, but Stiles doesn't think he can stay awake much longer. He waves his dad off when he moves to help Stiles up the stairs, slowly figuring out how to maneuver the crutches on his own. He's not at all surprised to find Derek in his room, leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed, glaring at his feet.  
  
Neither of them say a word as Stiles shuts the door, hobbling across the room and letting the crutches fall as he drops down on the bed. He spares a thought to lament another failed window trap, but he can't muster up anything more than that. His whole body is starting to ache, his head is pounding and he really just wants the day to be over.  
  
"You told him," Derek says softly once Stiles is on the verge of sleep. Stiles nods, rubbing a hand over his head. He probably needs a haircut soon. At this point, he's a little afraid the stylist will end up being Sweeney Todd.  
  
"Yeah. I didn't really know what else to do. Be angry if you want, but it's already done." Derek shifts his weight but still doesn't look at Stiles. If he didn't know any better he'd say the alpha looked uncomfortable.  
  
"I know." He goes quiet again. The stillness and lack of anger are kind of throwing Stiles off, but he's not in the mood to test it. "Scott said it was a beta."  
  
"Yeah. No one I recognized. He was taking orders from someone, though. Got a phone call while he was in the middle of menacing." Derek nods, looking... lost. The whole conversation is stilted, and while a calm Derek is a rare phenomenon where Stiles is concerned, he can't help but hope it will be over soon. It's making _him_ uncomfortable.  
  
"How long will it take?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your leg. How long will it take to heal?" Stiles gapes for a moment, wondering where the hell that come from.  
  
"They want me to use the crutches for a week. The stitches stay in for two. I think I can probably speed the process up a bit, though." Nodding again, Derek finally pushes off the windowsill and spares Stiles a glance.  
  
"I've got the pack monitoring your house for now. If this was Ethan's beta you're in even more danger." The whole thing is more than Stiles can wrap his brain around right now.  
  
"Are- are you worried about me? Are you _ill?_ "  
  
"Remember training Sunday. Bring Scott." And then he's gone.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://wolftraps.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 7

After the incident at the clinic, Stiles has two days of relaxation. Two days off school. Two days without training. Two days of his boyfriend stopping by with his missed homework and staying to show him just how good a time you can have without straining your leg. He may spend a bit of time gloating, but Scott can just deal with it after everything Stiles had to hear about Allison last year.  
  
Once the two days are up, though, everything is back to normal; or at least what passes for normal in his life. He sees the doctor again Thursday morning, pointlessly, then goes to classes for the remainder of the day. He can't actually do anything at cross country practice after school, but Coach Finstock makes him stay for it anyway. ("Stilinski! Where the hell do you think you're going? You can take your shit car out to see your vampire boyfriend _after_ practice. Now sit the hell down.")  
  
Then he spends an hour in the woods with Scott, stumbling over every twig, looking for yarrow. It's worth it, though, because chewed up and imbued with a bit of belief it makes a weird poultice that has him healed up enough to ditch the crutches the next day. Makes his mouth tingle a bit, but what can you do?  
  
Up until this point, he's refused gun and most bow training from Chris Argent, choosing instead to focus on gaining strength and close contact weaponry. Since he's still not supposed to use his leg, despite marked improvement in the last twenty four hours, Chris decides Friday that it's time Stiles tries to tackle firearms.  
  
Stiles proceeds to demonstrate that it's a little ridiculous to think the hyperactive cop's kid doesn't know his way around a gun. His dad took him aside years ago and made sure he knew exactly what a pistol does and how to use one safely. He's a father with a service weapon and a decent enough understanding of his child to know that telling him 'don't touch that' meant he almost certainly _would_.  
  
His precision could probably use a little work, but he can strip and reassemble a gun with ease. Lydia, who is actually training at the same time as him for once, is still uncomfortable with them. Allison approaches the two of them once they've packed up and asks them to hang out for a while, grab a bite. Stiles is exhausted and wants to go home, put another coat of poultice on his leg, crawl into bed and veg out with some superhero movies, but it's the first time Allison has asked to hang out since her mom died, and he doesn't think she really has any other friends.  
  
"Who goes to a burger joint and gets a salad?" he asks Lydia once they've ordered and sat down. "I didn't even know they _had_ salad."  
  
"I'm pescetarian," Lydia sniffs, looking disdainfully at the slightly bloody burger he just shoved in his mouth. "I'm allergic to red meat."  
  
"What? No you're not. Since wh-" He stops, faced with raised eyebrows and thin lips and a general expression of 'Go on, Stiles, dig yourself deeper. I dare you.' He coughs. "I mean, that's awful. Have you always been?" She rolls her eyes, but doesn't answer, turning her attention to Allison instead.  
  
"Allison, you know I love you, but if you brought us here to talk about Scott McCall I'm going to need to borrow that tragic scarf you're wearing so I can strangle myself."  
  
"And I should warn you," Stiles contributes, "I'm pretty sure I'm under some bro-code not to trash talk him with his ex." She smiles at them, then looks down at the table, wrapping her arms around herself. Stiles has seen her shoot a moving target from seventy yards and throw a man like he was a sack of potatoes, so it amazes him how small and young she looks sometimes.  
  
"No. Things with Scott are... going to take time. A lot more time. But they're okay." Scott's view of the situation is generally a lot more optimistic. "I was actually hoping I could get your advice on something."  
  
"Is this a girl thing? Cause I might be dating a guy, but I really don't think I'm qualified for that." Lydia smacks him on the arm, and he gives her a shrug and his most innocent expression. Neither of them seem to buy it. He doesn't blame them; he probably wouldn't either.  
  
"No. It's, um, my dad. In my family, I guess the women are supposed to be the leaders. And he's been training me to take over, but... I don't think I can." She hugs her arms tighter. "He... I don't think he really trusts me. And I don't think I really trust me either." Stiles is frozen with the burger halfway to his mouth, but when Lydia gets a pissy look and moves to respond, he cuts her off with a quick jerk of his head.  
  
"That is going to be a real waste of good food if you don't at least take a bite," he says. "Think of the children in Africa, Allison." She starts, finally looking up to meet his eyes. Stiles gives her a smile he hopes is reassuring (it probably isn't; reassuring isn't really his thing). She gives a small one back, though, and finally takes a bite of her burger. He doesn't know what else to say. 'Yeah, I think you'd be a pretty crap leader, too.' is out. And he has no idea why she came to _him._  
  
"Well, you're definitely not fit to lead anyone with _that_ attitude," Lydia snaps, obviously through with being ignored. "Aside from that, it's completely absurd to force command on someone with little more than rudimentary knowledge of the situation and no discernible leadership skills. No offense. Just tell your dad you won't do it or set up a shared command. We're in high school. You should be more concerned about what you're wearing to my Halloween party than organizing attacks in what is essentially a gang war." Bless the world for Lydia Martin.  
  
"Now is there anything else," she continues, "or can we talk about something more interesting? Like our plans to burn most of Stiles' wardrobe." Stiles makes a noise of protest and the conversation turns to lighter subjects, tension visibly draining from Allison's shoulders.  
  
She pulls him aside after they get back to her place, though, so obviously the conversation isn't as over as he'd hoped. The ache in his leg is getting worse and he's really regretting the decision to forego the crutches today.  
  
"Look, there's something else I need your help with," she says. Of course. Stiles is _this close_ to telling her to fuck off. "I know what happened now, with Derek and Scott and my mom. And I know he and the rest of the pack probably despise me, but I also know they're trying to protect Beacon Hills as much as we are. We've worked together before... Maybe we can't be allies, but my dad and I have talked and we'd like to at least not be enemies. We'd like to meet, sort out a treaty or something."  
  
"Okay? That... sounds like a potentially good idea, I guess." It also sounds like a pretty good recipe for disaster, but not really his problem. Stiles hopes his tone adequately conveys 'Why the hell are you telling _me?'_  
  
"So you'll do it?" Apparently it didn't, and he's definitely missing something. She looks too hopeful.  
  
"Wha- do _what?"_  
  
"Talk to Derek. Convince him to meet with us."  
  
"Oh yeah, sure, you want me to arrange a meeting with Oprah while I'm at it? Seriously, what is it with you people sending me to face His Scowliness on my own? I'm the one literally risking my neck for _your_ personal gain. And what the hell makes you think he'll listen to me? Newsflash! Dude still hates me." Allison looks at him with confusion and a bit of that smug 'I know something you don't that' drives him nuts. "Why don't you ask Scott to do it? I'm sure he'd jump on the chance to do something for you."  
  
"Well, I would, but Scott and Derek don't talk to each other." Beat.  
  
"What do you mean 'don't talk to each other'?"  
  
"I don't- I thought you knew. Scott said he hasn't even seen Derek since we rescued Jackson last summer. They trade information through Isaac, and he definitely won't do me any favors." Stiles probably _should_ have known. Looking back now, while he's ranted about Derek's threatening creeper tendencies, Scott's werewolf related info has only ever been accompanied by the words 'well, Isaac said.' It just hadn't registered.  
  
Still, Stiles is one revelation away from taking back what he said about trash talking Scott. "Okay, fine, whatever. I'm supposed to see Derek Sunday anyway. Right now I want to go home, crash, and maybe have some words with my best friend." He climbs into his jeep and shuts the door, starting the engine before she can spring anything else on him.  
  
\----------------------------------  
  
  
Scott comes over Saturday around mid-morning, both of them at a bit of a loss with the clinic closed. And Stiles has to talk Scott through another freakout about Deaton being dead and losing his job, which eventually falls into an argument about training with Derek's pack. Apparently Derek and Scott haven't spoken directly to each other since shortly after that day on the field back in June (something to do with disagreement over how Gerard was handled; Stiles is pretty sure Scott's not telling him the whole story, but he's willing to give him the benefit of the doubt). Scott, for one, doesn't seem eager to alter this arrangement, and he's a bit more vehement in his refusal now that Stiles isn't fresh from the hospital and smelling strongly of blood.  
  
As far as Stiles is concerned, new werewolves meant they're either going to need to bring in more hunters or work with Derek's pack. It's kind of a no-brainer. Stiles wins.  
  
The sheriff actually takes off work early, coming home in time for a late lunch, and aside from Stiles feeling really awkward being alone around his dad these days, Scott's presence helps smooth along the talk that follows. While his dad mostly believed that Stiles told him the truth (after also talking to Melissa McCall), it's an entirely different thing for him to see Scott go wolfy. That's the point, Stiles knows, that it actually becomes real. The point where he understands, rather than just knows, that there are werewolves (real, live werewolves) running around Beacon County. And sometimes his son is running around after (or with) them.  
  
Together, Scott and Stiles answer all the sheriff's questions as well as they can, including all they know about the recent cases (though downplaying the personal risk to Stiles as much as possible).  
  
Aside from a token protest and a look of concerned distress, Dad doesn't actually try to forbid Stiles from spending his time with werewolves or pursuing his own investigation. Though it's likely because he knows Stiles wouldn't listen and things would go right back to how they were before. And not a word is spoken about Stiles giving up any of his training, though Dad looks sad when Stiles talks about it. He even (reluctantly) lets Stiles take his wedding band for the night to try to coax a protection ward into it, though it's made abundantly clear that he expects it back first thing in the morning. Stiles suspects what really convinces him is the healing progress of his son's leg.  
  
They actually manage to have a comfortable, normal evening after Scott goes home, eating dinner together and picking apart police procedurals.  
  
Sunday afternoon, before he leaves for the old Hale house, Stiles finds a folder on the kitchen counter with pictures and reports on the werewolf related cases and a folding knife with a note telling him to take care of himself, whatever it takes.  
  
Derek meets Stiles and Scott at the jeep before Stiles even shuts it off and motions him to leave it on.  
  
"Peter is here. He's going to be helping with training. This is _my_ territory, though. Don't engage him outside of what training requires. Don't talk to him about Ethan. Don't tell him about the symbol. _Don't_ tell him about the witch. Pay attention to what he says to you and watch what you say to him." Scott starts looking surly and Stiles can practically feel the impending argument.  
  
"Wow," he cuts in. "It almost sounds like you don't trust anyone. What caused this dramatic change of heart?"  
  
Derek turns his glare from Scott to Stiles, briefly, before returning to his original focus. "I'll start trusting people when they stop giving me reasons not to." Then he stalks away before Scott can do more than grit his teeth and almost claw up Stiles' seats.  
  
"Whoa, dude," Stiles says, grabbing the closest wrist. "Watch the upholstery. My jeep didn't do anything to you." Settling a bit, Scott pulls out his claws with an apology.  
  
It's almost ruined, though, when Stiles shuts off the jeep and they hear Derek call back to them. "Scott, you're with the others. Stiles, with me."  
  
It takes longer than it should to get started, since Scott's being petulant and Erica lives to antagonize, but eventually Derek manages to get the betas sparring. It's fun to watch; they all jump off trees and do backflips and all those other Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon moves that can only be pulled off in movies. Stiles doesn't get to enjoy it for long, though. Peter puts a hand on his shoulder, and while Stiles shrugs it off immediately, he still allows himself to be led away after a subtle nod from Derek. He notes that they always stay in sight of the others and feels a bit better for it.  
  
"So, Stiles," Peter says, and the sound of his voice makes Stiles' skin crawl. It doesn't matter if they're on the same side, Stiles is never going to trust the undead creep. "I hear you've expanded your skillset past mountain ash. Why don't you tell me what Deaton taught you and we'll see if I can help."  
  
Stiles knows Peter can probably tell when he's downplaying and leaving things out, but he does it anyway and avoids outright lying to avoid provoking him. And while Peter acquires a tic, he doesn't do anything about it, so Stiles doesn't really care. They spend a decent amount of time discussing materials that are helpful or harmful to werewolves (with a conspicuous leaning toward the helpful).  
  
After about an hour of this ("Really, Professor Hale? You couldn't have told me to bring a notebook? I'm not going to remember any of this." "Would you prefer I assign homework?"), Derek calls them all in and proceeds to order Stiles to punch Scott as hard as he can.  
  
"What, is this _Fight Club?"_ Stiles asks incredulously. He's pretty sure Erica mutters something about having to fight on the first night and taking off his shirt. He pretends not to hear her.  
  
At the same time, Scott protests with a very impassioned "No fucking way."  
  
"Really, Scott?" Derek deadpans, his judging eyebrows aimed at someone other than Stiles for once. "You'll fight three werewolves at once, but you're scared of taking one hit from a scrawny human?" Stiles' 'Hey now!' is summarily ignored.  
  
 _"Yes!"_ Scott says. "None of them have his right hook and I can't hit him back!"  
  
Apparently, this month's lesson is how to limit themselves to human levels of strength. As Derek puts it, they've managed cross country alright, but lacrosse is only a couple month away and if the new season goes anything like the last... well, they don't need to be drawing more attention to themselves. So with little convincing, Stiles takes off his ring, tells Scott to stand still, and aims for his friend's stomach. They do this a couple times to give Scott a baseline before Derek has the other betas take turns beating on Scott as they try to hold themselves back.  
  
"I'm not sure you quite grasp the concept of passive aggressiveness," Peter remarks, coming up behind Stiles and nearly giving him a heart attack. While he agrees with the comment, Stiles doesn't say anything. There's no need to give Peter any more reason to wear that disturbing smirk.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," Derek says flatly, but Stiles can see his lips twitch a bit when Scott takes an exceptionally painful sounding strike to the jaw, and he doesn't need to hear Derek's heartbeat to know he's lying. As Scott pulls himself up, he throws a glare at them and Stiles just gives him a smile and thumbs-up.  
  
After another few minutes of free entertainment, Stiles is steered away by Derek's hand gripping the back of his neck. It's kind of odd, since Stiles hasn't been actively annoying him and it's lacking the usual roughness, but most of the past week has been odd, even for them, so he lets it pass. He spends the next hour and a half running through various scenarios with creepers 1 and 2 and coming up with plans. It's like a more realistic (if you can call werewolves and kanima and supernatural hunters "realistic”) game of D &D, and Stiles actually kind of enjoys it, even if he misses a lot because of distractions and Peter keeps staring at him with what looks frighteningly like fondness and Derek rejects all his suggestions.  
  
At least they manage to come up with a text code for being kidnapped that the whole pack... the whole _group_ is required to memorize before Derek lets them go.  
  
  
Stiles has one last task for the day that he corners in the McCall kitchen when he takes Scott home. It takes ten minutes and a thorough examination of his wound before Scott's mom is willing to remove his stitches a week early. She spends the whole time talking about being ill equipped and unsanitary surroundings and having protocols and the trouble they get themselves into giving her an aneurysm, but she takes them out. And Scott's been sent off to finish the English homework, but Stiles knows he can still hear them as Mrs. McCall takes Stiles' hand and asks him to watch out for her son. Stiles still promises and gives her a hug before he leaves.  
  
\-----------------------  
  
  
It's still Beacon Hills, of course, so things fall apart again by the middle of the week. Wednesday is the full moon, so it's not totally surprising that the three little wolves are absent from school that day. It's even less surprising that they're not in class Thursday morning. Werewolves may heal quick, but full moons can take a lot out of you. Or so Stiles has been told.  
  
What is surprising is the text Stiles gets from Derek toward the end of first period. **My apartment. NOW.** He excuses himself to the nearest bathroom to make the call.  
  
"Dude, you realize I'm in school, right?"  
  
"You realize _I don't care_ , right?" Derek snaps back. "I need you here ASAP. Bring whatever you used to heal yourself." And then he hangs up. And that's totally not ominous at all.  
  
Derek's voice sounded a touch frantic, though, so Stiles heads to his locker to switch out his history book for the bag of yarrow he now keeps there. The bell signalling class change rings while he's there, and he waves off Scott with a muttered "I'll explain later," but Danny intercepts him on his way to the door, looking serious.  
  
"Stiles, how are-"  
  
"Heeeey, Danny. Look, I'm kind of in the middle of something super important. Like, can't wait. Do you mind, I'll call you later?" Stiles puts on his best pleading face, which, granted, doesn't hold a candle to Scott's puppy eyes, but it's gotta be worth something. Danny doesn't look happy, but he nods. "Awesome. You're the best." Stiles scans the hall for Harris, then gives Danny a quick kiss. "I'll talk to you later."  
  
\------------------  
  
  
Stiles is hardly close enough to knock on the door before it's opened and he's being dragged in by the collar of his shirt.  
  
"What took you so long?" Derek hisses, not letting go until Stiles pries his fingers from their grip.  
  
"Oh, you know, thought I'd stop for coffee, grab a donut, smell the flowers. What do you think? I'm supposed to be in school, my dad's the sheriff, I drive a distinctive car. I needed to avoid the usual patrol routes. Now what's the fiiuh- issue, is what I meant to say." Derek scowls and pushes him further in, where Boyd is laid face down on the couch. He doesn't fit well, can't be comfortable, but Stiles supposes the wound bleeding through the towel across his back is probably the bigger concern.  
  
"They won't heal," Erica says from her spot on the floor by Boyd's head. Isaac is perched on the back of the couch. "It's been hours, and he's still bleeding... the smell, it's like I can taste-" Her voice goes soft.  
  
"You should go," Derek says, and there's not even a hint of a threat in it. Stiles didn't know that was possible. Erica shakes her head and grasps Isaac's hand across the arm of the couch. Derek doesn't insist.  
  
"We found him this morning, like that," he tells Stiles, pushing him closer a little more gently. "I tried to kickstart the healing process, but that healed and these stayed." He alternates between something resembling concern and glaring at the wound like it's sticking around just to spite him. Stiles isn't accustomed to seeing that glare when it's not aimed at him, but he _is_ practiced at ignoring it. So he's moving closer and pulling a bag of yarrow from his backpack before Derek's even done talking.  
  
"Is he awake?" Stiles asks Isaac, who has the clearest view of Boyd's face, though any one of them could probably tell from his heartbeat and breathing or whatever. Isaac shakes his head. "Awesome, then he won't mind what I'm about to do." Moving to straddle Boyd's waist for ease of access, Stiles pops a sprig in his mouth, feeling the tingle of power and astringent as he chews.  
  
Pulling the towel away and feeling each tug where dried blood has glued it to skin, he has to fight not to gag. Lacerations run from Boyd's right shoulder down to his mid-back, over the spine, and are still bleeding a little too freely. There's muscle tissue visible, a touch of something light that's probably scapula, and flaps of skin hanging, still attached.  
  
"Oh god," Stiles mumbles around his mouthful, "that is disgusting." He ignores the glare he can feel on his back and pulls out the masticated plant before his stomach decides to contaminate it with bile. The second he lays a hand near the wound, though, he freezes.  
  
 _"What?"_ Derek snaps, and Stiles twists his upper body to glower right back. "I swear to god, Stiles, if you-"  
  
"You want me to leave? Because I can. I like Boyd well enough, but I can totally walk out right now and let _you_ deal with the magic infused wound. _Or_ you can back off and trust me to handle the thing I'm actually semi-trained to deal with." Derek's pissy expression drops for about a second before it's replaced by that look like someone gave him a warhead and said it was a jolly rancher. He backs up as he crosses his arms, though, so Stiles takes it as permission to do his thing.  
  
It would help if he knew what 'his thing' was.  
  
 _Okay, Stiles, process of elimination._ It's super difficult to make power transfer by contact. Way beyond Stiles' level of skill. And while whoever this is might be able to do it, why do things the hard way? Chances are it's some sparked up material that was transferred into the wound, so he needs to neutralize it and get it out. With... what? What would Derek possibly have? It's hard to imagine Derek having much of anything, but-  
  
"Stiles-"  
  
"Garlic," Stiles says, then makes a face as he realizes he still has chewed up yarrow in his hand. "You have garlic, right? Everyone has garlic. You have to have garlic. Also a bowl for this." He waves his hand a bit. "And water. Lots of water."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"It's a neutralizing agent. Now do you have some or not?"  
  
Derek does have garlic, it turns out, though it's minced up in a jar in the fridge. Stiles would rather work with fresh, easier to mash up, more willing to conform to his desires, but it seems like the blood loss is starting to get the better of Boyd's healing, so they don't have time to get any. So Derek has minced garlic, as well as paper towels and a rolling pin (it's all very domestic) that Stiles uses to dry and crush the garlic as well as he can in absence of a mortar and pestle. He ends up having to let Derek do the crushing, werewolf strength and all. And really, Stiles is starting to understand why Deaton had all that random stuff at the clinic (though he still can't figure out the glow stick).  
  
There's no recipe, no guidelines, he's flying blind. But 'imagination is more important than knowledge' and all that crap. So Stiles gathers the garlic mush in his hands and pushes power into it. Thinks at it _clean, neutralize, heal_. A hand falls on his his shoulder, Derek's presence not menacing for once, and while Stiles feels awkward, the energy starts flowing a little easier. He dumps the garlic into a pot of water, not boiling but definitely hot, and mentally encourages the absorption as he stirs.  
  
"We should probably do this somewhere you don't mind getting wet and bloody," he tells Derek, pulling the pot off the heat. When he turns around, Derek's gone, as are Erica and Boyd. Isaac's waiting to lead him to the bathroom, though Stiles probably could have just followed the trail of blood. He's not going to complain when Isaac takes the heavy pot of water from him.  
  
The wash doesn't need any more direct contact from Stiles. The garlic will do what it was told. So he lets the werewolves take over pouring the garlic water through the wounds while he runs back to the living room for the yarrow. He only pauses a second when the deep, pain-filled howl resonates through the apartment, and probably the surrounding block, signifying Boyd's return to consciousness. Derek is just finishing up rubbing the mixture into the cuts, Boyd being restrained by his packmates, when Stiles gets back.  
  
Steeling his stomach, he takes over and shoves another sprig of yarrow in his mouth. One run of his hand over the wound lets him know it worked, only trace amounts of foreign power remaining and certainly nothing his yarrow can't take care of. Already, Boyd is starting to heal, but not fast enough. One more deep breath through his nose, bracing himself, and Stiles starts packing the wounds.  
  
By the time he covers the last line, the first is halfway healed, the werewolves all seem a little less tense, and Stiles is exhausted with a mouth that feels numb and tastes like chalk. He about collapses into Isaac, removing himself from the side of the tub, and is helped back out to the couch. The lumpy, worn out couch that suddenly feel more comfortable than a feather bed. The second Isaac lets go of him, Stiles starts playing chicken with unconsciousness.  
  
  
Stiles wakes up shortly before school lets out (which he's grateful for since it means he has some hope of hiding his truancy from his dad) with Derek looming over him and the others gone. It's not really a surprise. Derek seems to have a thing for looming. There's a brief discussion of what happened and how to keep it from happening again before Derek sends him off with an order to find out what he can. Stiles really wants to say 'you're not the boss of me,' but his presence in Derek's apartment suggests otherwise. And it somehow seems less embarrassing to just give the alpha an exasperated look than to argue and then do it anyway. Because he's going to. Do it. The research. why wouldn't he? It's kind of his thing... though it may have to be put off until he's caught up on schoolwork.  
  
Okay, that's a lie. Homework will always come second to researching supernatural phenomenon. He thinks he has enough Adderall that he should be able to do both, though. Maybe.  
  
Someone calls his name just as Stiles is about to get in his jeep, and he turns to find Derek standing in the doorway of his building. There's an awkward few seconds wherein Derek says nothing but seems to be working up to something. And Stiles assures himself that, despite the everpresent glare, it can't be anything too bad, since Derek's over there and not here, manhandling him. Though...  
  
"Thank you," Derek says finally, face almost relaxed for once. Stiles can't bring himself to be sarcastic or dismissive in face of that.  
  
He nods, once. "Of course," he says softly, climbing into the jeep and heading home.'  
  
\-----------------------------------  
  
  
It's a little before four when Stiles pulls into the driveway, but his dad's car is already there. As is his dad, leaning against the counter in the kitchen, absently spinning an empty glass. The bottle of Jack is nowhere in sight, though. A million scenarios run through Stiles' mind, trying to explain why his dad might be home, now, with that world weary expression; none of them are good. He's always been a supporter of getting information from the source, though.  
  
"Heeey, Dad. You're home! During a shift... why are you home?" Stiles reaches for the fridge to get a drink, he has to do something to hide his nerves, but Dad's arm shoots out to keep it closed. "What-"  
  
"Why weren't you in school today?" Crap.  
  
"Crap. How did you-"  
  
"Your guidance counselor called me," Dad says, crossing his arms. "When you didn't show up for your _mandatory_ session with her." Stiles totally forgot about that, and now he needs to do damage control.  
  
"Right. Crap, uh-"  
  
"The _truth_ , Stiles." The truth. Right. He can do that. That's totally a thing they're doing now.  
  
"Okay, Dad. It was an emergency, I swear. Boyd got attacked last night. He was hurt, bad, and it wasn't healing. He probably would've bled out if I didn't go help."  
  
"Boyd," Dad says, neither looking nor sounding particularly believing.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Boyd who is a werewolf."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Boyd who is a werewolf with super healing."  
  
 _"Yes!"_ Stiles says, throwing his arms out. "You see the issue?"  
  
"Stiles, the issue is that I found out a week ago that you may have a psychotic werewolf out for your blood, and today I got a call saying you weren't in school and no one knew where you were. Do _you_ see the issue?" Stiles curls in on himself a bit.  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Yes. 'Oh.' I called Scott who said you left school of your own volition, which is about the only reason I came home, worried sick, instead of _tearing the town apart_ looking for you."  
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't..." Stiles isn't sure what to say. The whole point of keeping his dad out of this in the first place was so he wouldn't be involved, would hopefully not be a target, so Stiles wouldn't have to worry about him more than he already did. When it came down to it, he and his dad were all each other had. Now he was putting his dad right in the position he was trying to avoid himself.  
  
"I know," Dad says, quiet, sad. "I guess that's the problem with lying for so long. You don't know how to stop." He straightens up, growing stern, and makes sure Stiles is looking at his face before he continues. "You're going to, though. From now on I know where you are at all times. You leave school, you go to one training or another, you hang out with Scott, I don't care, you send me a text." Stiles tries to protest, but the sheriff cuts him off. "I will do my best to understand if you have some crisis. I won't be happy about it, and like now, it might not keep you from getting grounded, but I will try to understand." Stiles swallows hard and nods his assent, and his dad claps him on the shoulder with a weak smile that he knows is supposed to be reassuring.  
  
"Okay. I have to get back to work. And _you_ are going to stay in tonight."  
  
\---------------------------------------  
  
  
Stiles doesn't realize until he gets to school the next day that he forgot to call Danny. He makes a mental note to apologize as the wolfettes waylay him at lunch.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Lydia shows up for their usual Saturday meeting a little after noon (earlier than they used to since he's not going to the clinic anymore). Erica slips in about a half an hour later. There's a tense few minutes between them, while Stiles tries to just stay out of the way, before something breaks. Erica turns to him and Lydia sits up a little straighter with a smug smile. He thinks they might have had a staredown to determine pack hierarchy or something. He's not sure he wants to know.  
  
Erica gives him a once over. "Can you believe Danny's going out with him?" she asks Lydia, like Stiles isn't standing _right there,_ and they're suddenly best friends or something.  
  
"Astonishing, isn't it?"  
  
And that's about all Stiles can take of _that._ "Har de har. Okay, seriously? Getting sick of people saying that. We've been going out for two months, is this really so shocking?"  
  
"Yes," Lydia responds without a beat.  
  
 _"Why?"_  
  
"You're just not his usual type. Now, care to explain why shewolf is here?" Which means the conversation has ended and it's useless bringing up the topic again.  
  
"Wha- ugh. You-" Stiles can't resist gritting his teeth and miming strangling her. "I told you she would be here."  
  
"Yes, but I asked _why."_  
  
"I asked her to come help pick out jewelry for everyone."  
  
"... _What?"_ Cue the fourth reiteration of Thursday morning's events, and Stiles' ingenious plan to save the day with accessories.  
  
"Just like the one I made for Danny, only a little more specialized."  
  
"And you're paying for this _how?"_  
  
Erica grins. "Derek's mastercard."  
  
"Well," Lydia sniffs, but seems to accede. "Mine better be gold."  
  
Things go surprisingly smoothly after that, though it's quickly made clear that Stiles' input is only useful in regards to material (gold, silver, iron, amber, quartz) and any opinion he may have on style is entirely unappreciated. By four, they've picked something out for everyone and Erica is actually helping Stiles go through some books on witches (or shamans or witch doctors or whatever the kids are calling it these days) when Lydia's phone goes off.  
  
She ignores it with little more than a disgusted glance.  
  
"Dare I ask?"  
  
"It's just my mother," Lydia says airily, mocking, "calling to remind me to take my medicine. Like I'm a child. I wouldn't need her help even if I was taking them."  
  
"Uh."  
  
"Iron supplements. According to numerous blood tests and two specialists, since last March I've become severely anemic, despite not displaying a single symptom. I'm perfectly healthy and the pills make me ill. So no, I'm not taking them." It strikes a chord in Stiles' mind, reminds him of something he knows he's read recently, but before he can pursue it, _his_ phone goes off.  
  
"Hey, what's up?"  
  
"Stiles!" Scott sounds frantic. "Where are you?"  
  
"Uh, at home? Where I said I'd be? Because I'm grounded for saving Boyd's life?" He ignores Erica's snort and Lydia's unamused air.  
  
"We have a problem. A really big problem. Like freaking-"  
  
"Yeah, Scott, dude, I get it. Awful, no good, very bad, super humongous problem. _What is it?"_  
  
"Isaac called me when he got back from patrols. Stiles, they just found Ethan's body. Someone killed him, and he's been dead for a while."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, [Tumblr](http://wolftraps.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 8

It takes a bit of convincing to get the sheriff to let the pack deal with Ethan's body. And it's literally the same amount of convincing required for him to let Stiles go examine the body Saturday night. Between Stiles, Scott, and the strange and terrifying combined force of Lydia Martin and Erica Reyes, though, they manage to sway him. Once they get on the scene, Stiles kind of wishes they hadn't.  
  
The wounds on the corpse probably aren't any worse than the ones on Deaton a week ago. The difference is an unknown amount of time left to the elements and hungry critters of the reserve. So Stiles is running a pretty high risk of losing his lunch and contemplating the possibility of lycanthropic maggots to make himself feel better. No one else seems to appreciate it when he comments, though, so he steels himself, pulls his shirt over his nose, and drops to his knees beside the body.  
  
"Ugh, how can you guys stand this?" he asks the group surrounding him as he hovers his free hand over the tears across Ethan's chest. "Or does this just smell like dinner?"  
  
"Stiles," Derek says flatly, and it's strange how he can say that, but what Stiles hears is 'Shut up and keep working, I have no sense of humor.'  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Stiles sighs, running his hand over the wounds again, this time a little closer. And a little closer. It's not until he's almost touching the decaying flesh that he gets the tingle in his fingers that he's been looking for. "Yep, same as with Boyd."  
  
"What does that mean?" Erica asks from a distance, voice strained and nose practically buried in Lydia's hair. Lydia who strangely doesn't seem to mind and keeps flicking her eyes between the body and Peter, and it's hard to tell which she's more disturbed by.  
  
"It means the witch is working with whoever did this," Derek says, hands in his jacket pockets and face even more intense than usual as he examines the body. Stiles thinks it might be because he's trying to ignore the smell, no matter how angrily he said Stiles' name. When he looks up, though, he gives Stiles a nod that might just be called approving.  
  
"It means there's another alpha," Peter says lightly. "And we don't know what he looks like, how big his pack it, or what he wants."  
  
"So basically we're exactly where we were before, but without the mental mugshot." Stiles stands up and backs away with a full body shudder once he knows there's nothing else to find. His hands didn't so much as graze cloth, but it's hard to keep that in mind while he's watching maggots squirm in the guy's chest, and he can't resist wiping them off on his shirt.  
  
"What about the blood?" Lydia asks. "You said the other ones were exsanguinated, but the vet wasn't and this guy _definitely_ wasn't."  
  
Stiles looks at Derek and they have a short conversation composed entirely of eye flicks and brow movements before it's concluded that Peter has his freaky ways of just _knowing_ shit and there's no point trying to hide anything from him. (Derek's side actually translates closer to: 'Stiles, you're an idiot. Get on with it.')  
  
"Yeah, I looked that up in my various obscure magical texts-"  
  
"You mean you just looked on the internet?" Scott asks, grinning, as he comes through the trees with Isaac and a few shovels in tow.  
  
"Scott, dude, you hurt me. I'm wounded. How could you even- Okay, yeah, I looked on the internet. There were a couple books, too, though! Anyway, turns out human blood is like super glue for magic, but you usually don't need much. So either this guy is pulling an Elizabeth Bathory, pumping out some serious power, or it's all just a scare tactic. I know which one I'm hoping for."  
  
"What about the thyme?" Isaac asks, passing a shovel to Boyd. "We smelled it at every scene but can't track it."  
  
"Yep, checked that out, too. Apparently it's a deodorizer. Like, a supernatural Febreeze, I guess, but it only work on the person wearing it."  
  
"Wait, so-" Scott starts, looking up from the already half-dug grave. Everyone else seems to be staring at Stiles, too.  
  
"Dude, guys, if this is gonna turn into a press conference, can we take it somewhere that _doesn't smell like death?"_  
  
Derek apparently agrees. "Isaac, Boyd," he calls and nods at the corpse when he has their attention. "You know what to do. Erica, you're on patrol with me. You go East, I'll take West." She nods and takes off without a word. "Scott..." Scott looks up sharply, dropping his shovel to stand off against Derek.  
  
"You're not-"  
  
"Yes, Scott. I'm not your alpha. You've made that perfectly clear."  
  
"So stop trying to order me around!"  
  
"I wasn't-"  
  
"Guys?" Stiles tries, since everyone else just seems content to watch.  
  
"It's not enough you've got Isaac and Erica and Boyd hanging on your every word!" Boyd snorts at that and Stiles suspects there's an amusing story in there somewhere. "Now you have Stiles coming whenever you call and I know you're just using him to get to me!"  
  
"Hey now!" It's nothing he hasn't thought before, but Stiles really doesn't think it's a fair assessment considering his recent contributions.  
  
"Scott, I really don't give a crap about having you in my pack right now. And I'm not forcing anyone to be here. So if you could pull your head out of your ass for one second and stop being so immature-"  
  
"Just when I thought this day couldn't get any more interesting," Peter drawls, and it's hard to tell whether he's being sarcastic or not. Stiles can't really see from where he is, but he thinks Peter might be recording the whole thing on his phone.  
  
" _Me?_ " Scott yells, gesturing wildly. " _I'm_ immature? You-"  
  
" _Boys!_ " Lydia's voice isn't really a yell, but it cuts through everything else like butter. Everyone stops. "I don't really care who has the bigger dick; I'm cold and uncomfortable and I want to go home. So if we could stop bickering and wrap this up, that'd be great." Scott glares at Derek for a few more seconds before stalking off; meanwhile Derek pulls Peter aside so they can have a hushed (or, well, silent as far as Stiles is concerned) but seemingly amicable conversation.  
  
Stiles offers Lydia his overshirt and starts heading back to the Jeep to drive her home, but they only make it about twenty yards before Derek stops them. He looks sourly between the two of them, and Stiles can catch a hint, so he gives Lydia his keys to let her go ahead. She purses her lips but takes them, rolling her eyes, and stalks off.  
  
"If this is about the protection charm thingies, they won't get here 'til Wednesday. I can pass them out Thursday afternoon probably." Derek nods sharply, still scowling angrily. It's obviously not what he wants to talk about.  
  
"You're still a target," he grits out like it pains him. "That beta knows you, he might even be alpha now, and the witch might consider you a threat. Just don't get careless."  
  
"What, no one gets to rip out my throat but you? How sweet." Derek's glare goes up a few notches. It's kind of amazing actually.  
  
"I could just tear your throat out now and save us all the trouble," he says. Stiles doesn't buy it. "Or you could not be an idiot for once."  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Constant vigilance. I got it," Stiles assures him, and Derek stalks away without another word. Walking back to his jeep, Stiles gets the sneaking suspicion that Derek might actually care what happens to him. It's accompanied by the annoying realization that Stiles might actually care what happens to Derek and his pack, too.  
  
\--------------------------------------------  
  
  
Despite the late night they all wind up having, training starts bright and ridiculously early Sunday morning (Stiles is woken up at eight by a dozen texts and two calls from Erica to 'get his ass to the Hale house, pronto'). He's already put in three hours of stretching, meditation, research, and general creepy-time with Peter before Scott arrives, looking almost surlier than Derek on any given day.  
  
"Dude!" Stiles calls, ignoring Peter's exaggerated eyeroll as he takes the opportunity to ditch meditation and greet his friend. "I texted you like five times this morning. I wasn't sure you were going to come."  
  
"Yeah, neither was I." Scott and the other betas are only at it for about half an hour before he and Derek get into it again, separating themselves from the group. Stiles tries to follow, but Peter stops him, which is supremely unfair since he seems to be the only one with keen enough hearing to know what's being said. There are no crashes or raised voices, so Stiles would like to assume it can't be going too horribly, but Peter's smirking amusedly and that's more concerning than anything else.  
  
When they get back, Scott has a sort of confused, smug smile and Derek seems on the verge of relieving him of a few extremities. They fall into training without any more issues, though, so no one seems to feel the need to push it. In the afternoon, Stiles gets to ditch Peter and join the others. Derek spars against Stiles himself, which for some reason causes Scott to laugh and subsequently Derek seems to take far too much enjoyment out of knocking Stiles flat.  
  
It's dark when Stiles makes it home that night to find his dad passed out on the couch. Sending him off to bed, Stiles drags himself up the stairs and into the shower. He's exhausted and hurting in places he didn't know he had, but Scott and Derek only fought once more, Stiles managed to talk Derek into meeting the Argents on neutral ground, and no one died, so Stiles counts the day as a win.  
  
\--------------------------------------------  
  
  
The next day is not a win. At all. Stiles wakes up almost too sore to move and too late to grab anything for breakfast. He skids into first period seconds before the bell only to realize he'd completely forgotten to do the homework, and hasn't even grabbed the right book. Everything seems to continue on this trend up to the start of lunch when Danny corners him in the cafeteria.  
  
"Have lunch with me." There's no way it's a request and it sounds way too much like 'we need to talk' for comfort. So Stiles grabs his tray and trails out of the lunch room after his boyfriend, mentally running through every encounter they've had recently to find what he might have done wrong, but he can't think of much. They end up on the stairs of one of the back entrances, looking out at the lacrosse field.  
  
"Do you want to break up?" Danny asks as soon as they're seated. 'Do you want to' not 'I think we should.' As in, does _Stiles_ want to.  
  
Stiles just kind of flounders. " _What?_ No! Why would you even think that?"  
  
"I don't know, Stiles, maybe because we haven't been on a date in weeks, and you always have lunch with Scott or Isaac and his friends. You say you're busy _every day_ , but you won't tell me what you're busy with. You don't call when you say you will. The only time I seem to see you anymore is practice. I'm just a bit confused here, Stiles." And that? That could definitely send the wrong signals. And Stiles is totally the worst boyfriend ever because he hadn't even noticed.  
  
"Shit..." he sets his tray aside and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair as he tries to process. "Crap, I'm so sorry, Danny. I didn't- I've kind of... been pretty caught up in a lot of other people's drama, and then the thing with Doctor Deaton- I guess I kind of forgot to make time for the things I want to be doing." He looks up with a small, hopeful smile, and it takes a while but eventually Danny smiles back, his quickly taking a lecherous turn.  
  
"And I'm something you want to be doing?" Stiles barks out a laugh and sits up to bump shoulders with Danny.  
  
"You are _definitely_ something I want to be doing. Often and in many places." Finally, Danny relaxes next to him. "Hey, this Friday... is my birthday. Wow. My birthday is Friday."  
  
"Did you seriously forget your own birthday?"  
  
Stiles shrugs. "I told you, man. A lot going on. Very distracting. _Any_ way, why don't we go somewhere Friday night? I'll try to make it all up to you."  
  
"It's your birthday, though. Isn't your dad going to want to see you? Or Scott?"  
  
"Dad won't be free until Saturday, and Scott will understand. He better after all the times he's ditched me."  
  
"We have a cross country meet."  
  
"So after that. I still haven't been cleared to run, so I'll come cheer you on and you can meet me on the lacrosse field after. I'll congratulate you on your win and you can wish me a happy birthday." Stiles knows he kind of fails at making it sound suggestive, but Danny doesn't seem to care, pulling Stiles into a kiss that tastes of Sprite and makes his jeans fit a bit tighter. Suddenly Friday seems very far away. "Or we could go out to the bleachers now and celebrate early."  
  
They end up in the slightly more secluded space behind the equipment shed, where Stiles puts his oral fixation to good use. He winds up being five minutes late to Physics and gets detention, but he can't really regret it.  
  
\------------------------------------  
  
  
It takes Stiles until Tuesday to remember there was something he wanted to look into in regards to Lydia. And when he sits down for lunch with her on Wednesday, he's still not really sure how to broach the subject.  
  
"Well?" she says after they've been eating in silence for two minutes. "Is there actually something you want to tell me? Because there are so many better things I could be doing than having lunch out here with you, especially if you're not going to say anything." Stiles sighs.  
  
"I think you might be a changeling," he blurts out and proceeds to stuff half a chicken strip in his mouth to avoid saying anything further.  
  
"A changeling." Stiles cringes and nods. "What the hell is a changeling?"  
  
He swallows hard, choking a little. "Umm, a faerie? They're left by their parents in place of human children." Lydia levels him with an unimpressed glare.  
  
"A fairy." He curls his lips in and bites them as he nods. "You think I'm a fairy." Another nod.  
  
"Yeah." "I think you've been spending a bit too much time on tvtropes, Stiles. I am not and never will be your manic pixie dream girl."  
  
"Yeah, ha ha, so funny. I researched this for like five hours last night, Lydia. The iron allergy? Not turning from the bite? Resistance to kanima venom? All signs point to some kind of faerie."  
  
"Okay, fine. Say I am. What does that mean for me? Am I going to sprout wings and fly?"  
  
"Probably not, but this is Beacon Hills so I wouldn't rule it out. Really, though, you should have some kind of magic of your own, most non-synthetic poisons won't hurt you, and a lot of other types of magic won't work on you."  
  
"What about-" she freezes, still unable to talk about Peter and what happened last March, but Stiles knows what she's asking. Unfortunately, he doesn't know the answer. He shrugs as apologetically as he can.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
\----------------------------------------  
  
  
Stiles has developed a great appreciation for hot showers in the past few months. When he gets home Wednesday night, bruised and aching from both a return to cross country practice and an impromptu training session with the Argents, it's the first place he goes; stripping down to nothing and stepping under the nearly scalding spray with a satisfied sigh.  
  
He takes his time, letting the tension drain with the sweat, fully prepared to use every ounce of hot water in the house. His mind wanders as he washes off, remembering Danny's hands grasping his hair as he works in the shampoo, and the look on his boyfriend's face as he came. He remembers the feel of hands on him, jerking him off, as his own slowly travel down to grab his half-hard cock.  
  
Stroking himself, soft and slow at first, he imagines dark hair and rough hands running along his sides. He grips harder, moves faster, to the sound of panting and deep groans in his head. Stiles' breath hitches as he wonders what it would feel like, to have stubble grazing his thighs along with a warm mouth swallowing him down; comes to the memory of someone gasping his name.  
  
Stiles jumps when he walks into his room and almost loses the towel wrapped loosely around his waist, because Derek Hale is already there and looks like he has been for a while. Aawkwaaard.  
  
"Holy god, dude, what is your problem?" Stiles asks, gripping the towel to hold it tighter when Derek's eyes flick to it briefly. And Stiles has buffed up a bit in the last few months, but he's _seen_ Derek shirtless. Multiple times. In close proximity. So he can't help feeling kind of self-conscious.  
  
"How long have you been in here? Don't answer that. You couldn't have waited until I was dressed before breaking into my room? Or, hell, ring the doorbell like a normal person! My dad doesn't think you're a criminal anymore. Using the front door is totally something you can do now!" His most recent window trap is lying on the floor near the desk. "Can you at least tell me if that made any noise before you destroyed it?" Stiles asks, gesturing toward the pile of wire and metal, then quickly snapping his hand back to grab the towel before it falls.  
  
"If you don't want any of us coming in, why don't you use mountain ash?"  
  
"Oh, yeah, of course, why didn't _I_ think of that? Maybe because that's _not the point_. First, I'm not trying to keep anyone out. I just want warning. And second, mountain ash barriers don't like functioning independent of the caster. They usually collapse over distance or time. At least this way I'll know if someone was here when I was out."  
  
Derek doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't argue either, choosing instead to grace Stiles' almost bare form with another judging glance. And Stiles is actually getting a bit cold, which is totally the reason for his goosebumps. Definitely.  
  
"Do you mind? I'd like to get dressed." And it shouldn't be an issue, he does it in the locker room all the time, but Derek keeps _looking_ at him.  
  
"Go ahead," Derek says, but he doesn't leave or even turn around, really. He just starts looking through Stiles' things like he's never heard of the concept of privacy. And Stiles knows _that_ isn't true since Derek isn't really a sharing kind of guy.  
  
At this point it would probably be a little childish to grab some clothes and stalk to the bathroom to change, but, well, Stiles grabs some clothes and stalks to the bathroom to change. When he gets back, Derek is in the spare chair, flipping through his pile of mostly-notes-on-witches.  
  
"So what has you playing Creepy McStalkerton tonight?" Cue jaw clench.  
  
"You said you'd have the charms tonight." Bullshit.  
  
"Yeah, but I also said they wouldn't be ready until tomorrow, which is kind of looking like wishful thinking right now. They only got here today. I haven't even had a chance to check them out yet." Derek nods and doesn't move to leave, which Stiles takes to mean he was right about the charms being a cheap excuse. "And?"  
  
"Allison approached me today. We've agreed to meet Friday evening."  
  
"Oookay? Great. Glad to see everyone working out their issues without racking up the body count for once. Anything else?" Because Stiles really isn't sure why Derek is telling him.  
  
"We also decided to meet here."  
  
"What? Why? No one thought to talk to me about this?" Stiles has plans Friday. Very Important Plans. Having a peace treaty meeting at his house with temperamental werewolves and hunters is not in the plans.  
  
"Neutral territory. And I'm tell you now."  
  
"Oh, yeah, of course. I'll just give you the keys and get out of the way, then, shall I? Should I warn my dad to steer clear while I'm at it? Just hope we don't come back to a place that looks like a real life Mortal Kombat match was fought here?" Derek's brows furrow and Stiles is actually starting to be able to identify this expression as 'confused'.  
  
"Why would- you can't leave."  
  
"Not that I was relishing the thought of setting you all up in my house alone, but _why not?_ " Stiles' arms fly out, palms up in a clear 'hit me' pose he hopes isn't taken literally. He's too tired and sore for that shit.  
  
"You're our mediator."  
  
"Wha- Since when? I don't remember signing up for this!"  
  
"Since you're the one who brought Allison's invitation to me and you're not fully on either side." Derek speaks slowly, like Stiles is dumb, and it irks, but it also allows him time to process.  
  
"Why does no one tell me these things? Instead of making me run myself into the ground, you and Chris should be teaching me werewolf-hunter etiquette or something, oh my god. Okay, no, you know what? I quit. You better find someone else or you're SOL. I have plans Friday."  
  
"Cancel them."  
  
" _No._ "  
  
"Is having sex with your boyfriend, who you're already putting at risk, really more important than a treaty that might save this town?" Stiles is gaping, he knows, slackjawed and wide eyed, and he's not sure why he's surprised Derek went there, but he is.  
  
"Oh, that's just-" He collects himself, squaring his shoulders and totally done with this bullshit. "Screw you, Derek. You know what? Yes. Yes, spending _my birthday_ with Danny is more important to me right now than playing referee for you and Chris Argent. I'm not a hunter, I'm not one your betas. So unless you're throwing a clause in there that Stiles is free game for kidnap and torture, either do it without me or have it another day." Stiles whips around to face his desk, away from Derek, hoping the way he pulls out his pocket knife and busies himself with the jewelry packages, ignoring Derek's presence at his back, adequately signifies how done he is with the whole conversation.  
  
He actually does lose himself in the charm work, though, so he's not sure when Derek leaves (that's a lie, it was about 6 minutes after they stopped talking), but the next time Stiles turns around his room is empty.  
  
When he gives Allison a necklace the next day (silver with amber; he wasn't sure about making her one, but Lydia insisted), she asks him if he's okay with them having the meeting at his house on Sunday. So apparently something got through to Derek. Will wonders never cease?  
  
\-----------------------------------------------  
  
  
Friday night on the lacrosse field, while he's still running high off cake and Danny's wins and anticipation for the night ahead, the cold splash of reality hits Stiles in the face like a sledgehammer. Somehow, despite all the murders and attacks, despite every spare moment being spent researching witchcraft and mythical creatures, despite his half-assed attempts to keep something like this from happening, Stiles had let himself get complacent. It's a stupid mistake, forgetting that this thing with Danny being separate and normal doesn't mean it can't be affected by the supernatural shit in his life.  
  
Danny's limp, unconscious body falls to the ground as he's released, and Stiles tries to send 'protect' and 'heal' at his necklace as hard as he can. He's not sure it's working, though; he can't get close enough, kept back by the familiar form crouching over Danny. Red eyes shine with smug satisfaction.  
  
"Well, now," Peter says as he stands, and Stiles resists trying to knock that smirk off the asshole's face only through distance and the knowledge that he'd be doing more damage to himself. And more importantly, it would endanger Danny, the one who really matters. "Isn't this familiar?"  
  
And it is. Very familiar. Stiles is still having trouble figuring out if it's real or just another variation of his usual Winter Formal nightmare.  
  
"Tell me, Stiles, do you ever get tired of being so weak and useless? Forced to rely on your friends to protect you and unable to help any of them." It's a lie, Stiles tells himself, remembering Derek's face as he said thank you after Stiles saved Boyd. Stiles _can_ help now. He still has to fight back the urge to rush to Danny's side, though. He's been through this a couple times now. The quicker he gets Peter talking, the quicker he can get Danny help... If Danny's still alive _to_ help.  
  
"Tell me who let you off your leash. At least I won't feel guilty for not being able to help them."  
  
"Cute, Stiles," Peter steps over Danny's prone form and stalks toward him. "Not going to ask me why I'm doing this?"  
  
"You're a psychotic bastard who's trying to build a pack, wrest control of Beacon Hills from your nephew, and instate yourself as alpha supremo of Northern California; then, with your new power, you'll wipe out the rest of the Argents and all who oppose you?" Peter laughs and Stiles' skin crawls.  
  
"Did you come up with that just now? You are the clever one. Off on a few details, but on the right track."  
  
"You're a mysterious dude, but if there are two things I know about you, it’s that 1) you like feeling powerful and playing with your prey, and 2) you know how to hold a grudge. My question isn't 'why are you doing this?' it's 'what do you want from me this time?'"  
  
Peter tilts his head to the side like a confused dog, and it briefly makes Stiles wonder how well Peter passed as human _before_. But it doesn't matter now.  
  
"Everything, of course. Why don't we discuss this somewhere a bit more... secure?" Stiles is already reaching for his cellphone, but Peter has his arm in a tight grip before he can even unlock it, pulling it up to a familiar position. And Stiles is fully prepared to turn down the bite again, but Peter just tsks at him and squeezes his wrist harder and harder until the phone drops from his grasp.  
  
"Ahh." Stiles yanks his arm back as soon as the grip loosens, flexing his fingers and turning the wrist to check for damage. "Just let me call someone for Danny. Like last time. He needs help." Peter steps down on the phone with a crunch.  
  
"Not this time. This time, I'm not taking any chances." There's no smack to the head, no punch to the stomach, not even strangulation.  
  
"Ow!" Stiles yelps, looking to find a syringe emptying into his arm, and then he passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://wolftraps.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this up, especially after the way the last one ended.  
>  **Warning:** this chapter contains implied torture and Stiles generally being beaten up.

The warehouse Stiles wakes up in is one he's never been in before, which is kind of surprising actually and says a lot about his life that that's the first thing that registers. The second is that his hands are tied, and yes, he can appreciate the irony. Hunter training isn't helping him much, though, since his bonds are attached to a hook hanging about two feet above his head. There's no way he can get them down without alerting his guard. At least his feet rest flat on the ground, and while his phone and keys are gone, his protective jewelry is in place and he can feel the knife his dad gave him against the small of his back, tucked into a pocket inside the waistband of his jeans.  
  
Peter is nowhere to be found, but the beta from the clinic is, and he looks rather eager to 'get to know' Stiles like he threatened the last time they encountered each other.  
  
"Look who finally woke up," Dick crows, stepping in close. He's about two inches shorter than Stiles, and the hand on his face and putrid breath as he's forced to look down at the beta make Stiles' skin crawl. There's no way he's getting anything worthwhile from this guy, so Stiles is fully prepared skip the questions entirely and go straight to mouthing off, getting the werewolf riled up and reckless. The second he opens his mouth, there's a fist in his stomach. Stiles, as he curls in as far as his suspended arms will let him and gasps for breath, figures it's safe to assume Peter's betas didn't get the same lesson on strength control as Derek's. The only thing keeping him from falling to his knees is the rope that has him hanging.  
  
"While I would love to find out what sort of screams I can pull from that smart mouth of yours, I'm under orders. So you keep your trap shut until Alpha comes back or I find my own way to keep you quiet. Understand?" Dick practically spit the words in his face while he pulls Stiles back to his feet by his hair. He knew he shouldn't have grown it out.  
  
"I don't know. Could you repeat it in Latin?" The side of Stiles' face explodes in pain and he blacks out.  
  
\--------------------------  
  
  
There's a soft light coming through the high, busted windows the next time Stiles opens his eyes... well, eye. There's a ball of cloth in his mouth (which is feeling _really_ dry) and his left eye is swollen shut. He briefly, wistfully, thinks that one day he'll learn to keep his mouth shut, except no, he really won't. A catalogue of injuries turns up nothing aside from his face and a bruised abdomen, both of which hurt less by the second as the amber hanging around his neck does its job.  
  
He's not hanging anymore. Instead he's been propped up against a brick pillar and his hands are tied behind his back. This? This he can work with, as long as he gets the opportunity. Any not completely useless werewolf would hear him sawing at the ropes.  
  
Peter is still MIA, but now so is Dick and there's another beta in his place. This one is younger, maybe mid-twenties, and pretty, and she looks bored out of her mind. She glances up from her book when he starts shifting around, but once she's satisfied he's not up to anything she seems content to ignore his presence.  
  
The light shining in gets brighter as time passes, so it's still morning. Stiles' dad has to be looking for him by now. Probably Scott and the pack, too. With his phone in pieces on the lacrosse field and Peter's trick with the thyme, though, Stiles isn't very optimistic about their chances. He just hopes they find Danny. Alive.  
  
Sometime later, (at least a few hours, Stiles started counting to pass the time, and tapping his feet and talking around the gag, even a half-assed escape attempt when he got really bored; this woman has to be the mellowest person in the world) another man comes in to relieve her. He takes Stiles to a bathroom at the back of the building that probably hasn't seen a cleaning product since Stiles was in diapers. He's just grateful he doesn't have issues with spiders.  
  
Beta #3 is probably about Stiles' dad's age, the oldest so far, and he doesn't put up with Stiles' antics or take out the gag, aside from giving him some water, but he talks about baseball a lot and Stiles decides he likes him well enough.  
  
\--------------------------------  
  
  
Peter finally comes in as the sunlight starts fading and the hanging lamps kick on. He tsks over Stiles' new wound, almost healed enough that he can see through the black eye, removes the gag and pulls up a seat.  
  
"Comfortable?" he asks, lounging in the cheap metal folding chair as only a true villain can.  
  
"Eh, two star at best. Wouldn't recommend. I mean, there wasn't even a complimentary breakfast." Peter gives him that fond smiles Stiles has seen a few times, the one that creeps him out like nothing else.  
  
"I'll have Beth bring you something later. Now." He leans forward, intent. "Do you know why I took you, Stiles?"  
  
"I thought we covered this back on the lacrosse field. You've got the whole vengeance-driven psychotic thing going? Are you about to start flipping a coin to decide my fate? What is it, heads you bite me, tails you just rip out my throat?"  
  
"No coins. You're not _actually_ Batman, Stiles. And while your theory about my motives is partially true, that isn't what I asked you. I asked why you think I took _you._ " Stiles shrugs.  
  
"Obviously not because I'm Gotham's greatest hope." Peter is starting to look annoyed, which Stiles would totally be fostering if only he'd had a chance to cut his bonds. Frustrated people make mistakes. "Because I'm the weakest link?"  
  
Peter laughs. "Come on, Stiles, let's be honest for once. Out of Derek's whole joke of a pack, you're the most likely to bite back. I know you're smarter than this. _Think._ "  
  
"Der- What do you mean 'out of Derek's whole pack'? I'm not _in_ his pack!" Stiles almost tips over from trying to use his arms to gesture.  
  
"Aren't you? Consider it, Stiles. We're getting off topic, though. I trust you haven't forgotten the offer I once made you."  
  
"Answer's still no."  
  
"Oh, I know. I'm actually rescinding the offer. You're much more use to me as you are. Now, let's try this again. Why did I take you, Stiles?"  
  
"I don't-" Peter's hand flies out, grabbing Stiles by the hair and ramming his head into the pillar. Stiles really does start to tip this time, thrown off balance trying to grab his throbbing skull, but Peter keeps him upright with a really discomforting hand cupping his chin. "Holy god, what the-" The grip tightens and Stiles stops, trying to swallow down his fear.  
  
"Don't lie to me, Stiles, and don't play dumb. You know how much I hate that. Now, one last time, and I want you to really think about it. Why would I take _you_?" It's hard not to flinch against the pain and Peter's touch or to recoil, though he doesn't have far to go. Stiles takes a minute, to calm himself down and think past the pain that still has bright spots appearing in his vision. He can't help the panic when Peter's hand slides down to grip his throat.  
  
"The magic," he gasps. "You took me because I can do magic."  
  
Peter smiles, letting go of his neck to pat his cheek. "There now. That wasn't so hard, was it?"  
  
"It's why Deaton's dead. Your witch doesn't need competition. If I'm such a threat, though, why don't you just kill me?"  
  
"I'd really rather not, it'd be such a waste. The offer of the bite is off the table. The offer to join my pack is still open." What.  
  
"But you-"  
  
"Consider it, Stiles," Peter says, pushing back the chair as he stands. "Now, hate to cut this short, but I need to see the sheriff about aiding a search party. His son is missing, you know."  
  
\---------------------------------  
  
  
Beta #3 only stays with Stiles for another half hour or so, and he's fighting sleep when Dick makes another appearance. He sends the other man off with a wave and crouches in front of Stiles, grinning sadistically. All Stiles can think is: this is going to hurt.  
  
"Alpha says you may have a concussion. I'm supposed to make sure you stay awake. So let's have a little fun, shall we?" He's already reaching for Stiles' hair and that's getting old fast.  
  
"He tell you to call him that?" Stiles asks, trying not to let his words slur. Dick hesitates, just for a second, and that tells Stiles exactly what he needs to know. "It's to remind you of your place, you know. So you remember that you're beneath him, less than him. So you don't question him; don't realize that he doesn't give a shit about you."  
  
With a growl, Stiles is hauled to his feet and shoved face first into the pillar. Dick crowds him in and his hot breath falls on Stiles' ear as he speaks. "I'd hate to miss those sweet screams, but if you keep talking I _will_ gag you. Now, I'm going to untie you, and if you so much as twitch away, I will break one of your fingers. Got it?" Stiles nods.  
  
And he knows it's a horrible, awful, really bad idea, but as soon as his hands are free, Stiles is stomping back onto the beta's foot, elbowing him in the gut, and shoving the heel of his palm up into his nose. Stiles has no real hope of getting away, but he stills runs. His vision sways, though, and he doesn't make it far.  
  
"That was stupid," Dick growls, throwing him against the pillar. Stiles' entire back screams in protest, but it's nothing compared to the spike it feels like someone is driving into the back of his skull. Bright spots still obscure his vision when Dick grabs his hands and his left middle finger makes a sharp crack.  
  
Less than a minute later, Stiles hands are bound and suspended above him again. "Now, let's see if we can't keep you awake. Feel free to scream. This might hurt."  
  
\---------------------------------  
  
  
Beta #2, Beth, takes over watching Stiles a couple hours before dawn, letting him down and checking him over. Her voice is almost calming when she talks to him, telling him how she used to be a paramedic as she sets his finger and treats the slower healing wounds. She gives him a sandwich and a water bottle (and while she's packing up the medical supplies, Stiles takes the opportunity to slip a thyme-smelling bracelet from the table into his pocket) and escorts him to the bathroom before tying him back up, hands behind his back again. He asks her how someone in the business of saving lives ends up working for Peter, but if she answers he doesn't know, slipping into sleep as soon as he sits down.  
  
It's light when Stiles wakes up, which he hopes means it's still Sunday. Peter is there again, sitting in that chair, lording over him. He doesn't look pleased.  
  
"My apologies for Richard. I will be speaking to him about following orders and taking liberties. It won't happen again," he says, voice like steel. "How are you feeling?"  
  
And Stiles' whole body may ache, but his mind is slightly clearer now, so he's fully prepared to come back in full sarcastic force, if only he could talk. His throat is so dry all he can manage is this almost crackling sound like that girl from The Grudge. A wave from Peter has Beth stepping forward with a bottle of water. Once he's had enough, coughing and getting a decent amount on his shirt, she backs off, but not before brushing his neck and drawing out some of the pain.  
  
"Like some dick tortured me all night," Stiles retorts, sleep still heavy in his words. And then it hits him. "Wait. Richard? Dick's name really is Dick?" Peter rolls his eyes.  
  
"Have you considered my offer, Stiles?"  
  
"Flattering as it is to be head hunted... literally, I was under the impression that the position of pack witch had been filled," he says, moving around a bit awkwardly as he tries to stretch his stiff limbs, lamenting the lack of a hot shower.  
  
"Yes, well. My associate _is_ powerful." Peter nods his head a bit in concession. "But you, Stiles, you have ingenuity. And you should know by now how desirable an asset that is in a practitioner. Should you agree, we can easily arrange a, hmm, accident. All these animal attacks lately, it's really quite dangerous out there."  
  
Stiles can't help his shuddering, but the best way to get out of this right now is to play along. "What do I get out of this?"  
  
"An assurance of safety for your father. Even Scott if he agrees to join us. But most of all the power to keep them safe yourself. The strength. Do you have any idea how much power a practitioner can gain through an alliance with a stable pack?"  
  
"Ha!" Stiles can't help the laugh that startles out of him. "As far as I can figure, a pack is only as stable as its alpha. And no, well, yeah, offense totally meant, but you're less stable than Jackson's species."  
  
"I'm not insane, Stiles-"  
  
"I think we're gonna have to agree to disagree on that."  
  
"-driven, but not insane. I have a goal to accomplish, you see, and I will do _anything it takes_ to achieve that goal. Do you understand?"  
  
Exhaustion is settling in, the ache in his every muscle hardly lessening at all as the spark he gave his amber starts to fade. He's shoving the last of his energy into renewing it, but he's still not used to transferring power without his hands. It's getting harder and harder to keep his mind on track.  
  
"Considering the coming back to life and the body count and the kidnap and torture of a teenager?" Stiles responds weakly, after a little too long. "Yeah, I get it. What I don't get is what you're after now. You got your revenge. Everyone involved in the fire is dead."  
  
"Ah, but they're not," Peter says, almost absently. He's crouching down to examine Stiles' unfocused eyes.  
  
"Wha-"  
  
"After all, Derek's still alive."  
  
\----------------------------------------  
  
  
Stiles gets his chance that afternoon. When he wakes from a short nap, more coherent, Peter is gone and a fourth beta has made an appearance. He's younger than Beth (Stiles thinks the guy might have been a few years ahead of him in school) and he obviously isn't thrilled with babysitting duty. He sits at the table on the other side of the warehouse, facing away from Stiles, playing on a DS and blasting death metal at a volume that could deafen a human. It's practically an invitation to escape.  
  
Less than a minute after the second song starts, Stiles has his pocket knife out of the waistband of his pants and is sawing away at the ropes, pausing only during the break between tracks. Fifteen songs later, he has the bonds cut through and retied loosely so he can pull them apart when he needs. He even makes an attempt to sneak away but apparently large movements are too much for this guy to ignore.  
  
Stiles' stomach drops an hour or so later, about halfway through Beta #4's shift by his reckoning, as Dick stalks in with a frown. He grabs the music player, pitching it into the wall and grinning at his packmate as it shatters into pieces.  
  
"What the-" Beta 4 complains, but Dick grasps him by the back of the neck, sinking in his claws. He lifts the kid with little more than a flex of arm muscle and tosses him at the door.  
  
"You're being relieved. Get out." Dick turns to Stiles then, pulling him to his feet by his shirt for once, as his packmate scrambles away. He gives a put upon sigh. "Kids these days. But that's what you get for picking up strays, I guess."  
  
"Oh yeah, look at you, Big Bad Beta, terrorizing the other pups. I bet Peter's _real_ impressed with you. You know, last I heard your Stiles privileges were revoked." Stiles leans back against the pillar as much as he can, hiding the ropes and putting just that little bit more distance between him and Dick.  
  
" _Alpha_ appreciates my talents, and I'm going to prove to him what an asset I am. He says you're being uncooperative. I'm going to convince you." Bringing their faces inches apart, Dick runs his claws lightly across Stiles throat. And Stiles wants to turn away, but he forces himself to stare the asshole in the eye.  
  
"Yeah? Well you might want to rethink your definition of convince. 'Cause your alpha? Uh huh, he wants me in his pack. Bad. And I'm pretty sure if I told him I'd join as long as he killed you, he'd rip your heart out right there and give it to me wrapped in a bow."  
  
Dick snarls. "What's so special about you? Some snot nosed kid. If he wants you so bad he should just bite you and be done with it. None of this waiting for you to say yes bullshit." And that? That's just perfect. Stiles doesn't even try to hold in his laughter.  
  
"You don't even know, do you?" he asks, grinning despite the blood he can feel trailing down his neck. "He didn't tell you why he wants me. No, dude, he's not gonna bite me. I'm no use to him as a werewolf. I'd lose my mojo. You remember? The thing with the ash? Yeah. I got something you'll never have. Anyone can be a werewolf. Peter can't just _make_ someone like me. So you? You're expendable." Dick shoves him against the pillar again, and Stiles starts trying to slide his knife back out of its pocket again. It he can get the opportunity, hit hard enough in the right spot, there's a chance he could make it out.  
  
It doesn't work. Dick backs up a step and punches Stiles in the stomach, right on top of the half-healed bruise from before. With the extra room, Stiles lashes out, swinging his arm around to slash at Dick's throat. His hand is caught inches from it's target, though, and twisted back to the threat of his wrist breaking. Dick slams his head against the brick again and plucks the knife out of his grasp while he's dazed.  
  
"I can see why you're so rare if they're all like you. You're so stupid it's amazing you lasted this long." He runs the knife down the side of Stiles' face, then across his collarbone, and a sharp, stinging pain follows in its wake. "Did you really think you could kill me? With a flimsy thing like this?"  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles watches Peter walk in, thunder falling over his face. "I don't know. Do you really think Peter's going to let you live through this?" Dick bares his teeth and growls and suddenly there's pure agony radiating from Stiles' left shoulder where the knife is buried hilt-deep. There's a roar of rage alongside Stiles' cry of pain, and he barely registers as Peter throws Dick across the room hard enough to dent the wall.  
  
Peter turns back to Stiles and puts one hand on his uninjured shoulder, thumb on the skin of his neck. Some of the pain disappears, drawn out, enough so he can think at least a bit.  
  
"If I pull that out, can you heal it?" Peter asks, and Stiles considers it, but the answer is probably no. His charm can take care of the small, non-life-threatening stuff, but it would take something stronger than yarrow and more focus than he has to heal this enough before he bleeds out. He shakes his head. "Are you _sure_?" Nod.  
  
Peter steps away, paces a couple times, then stops. "It's a shame," he says, "but waste not, want not."  
  
He starts to move in, fangs bared, and Stiles is out of time and down to his last resort. Bracing himself against the remaining pain, he throws all the strength he has into a right hook that connects just below Peter's temple. Despite the growing chance of death, and possibly a broken hand, Stiles gets a deep satisfaction from the crack of glass, the thump of Peter hitting the ground, and the cry of pain as the wolfsbane stored in his ring spreads through the cuts from the glass that had encased it.  
  
Stiles doesn't wait to see the results of his handiwork, though. As soon as Peter hits the floor, he's running toward the exit. He can hear as Dick pulls himself from the rubble and Peter gets to his feet and a spike of fear makes it through, but the pain is fading from the adrenaline and as he reaches the open doorway he catches sight of Dick tackling Peter in his peripheral vision.  
  
As soon as he's out of sight and reasonable werewolf hearing distance, he slips the thyme bracelet out of his pocket and slips it on. As the edge of the warehouse district, he stops for only a few seconds to get his bearings. The good news is, he's only about a mile from the hospital. The bad news is, he's still a mile from the hospital, and he can feel his energy draining with every second.  
  
Maybe running with a knife through his shoulder is a bad idea, but there's no way to know how long he has before someone catches his trail. So he pushes through the pain and the waying vision and doesn't slow down until he's stumbling with each step and the emergency room sign is in view.  
  
Stiles hears a woman scream his name right before he hits the ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah. I know. You can come yell at me [on tumblr](http://wolftraps.tumblr.com) if you want.


	10. Chapter 10

Claws tear through the tender flesh of his shoulder, and Stiles can't hold in his shriek of pain. and as his vision clears, he chokes back another cry. Carnage surrounds him. Blood and gore and everyone he loves, staring at him with wide, vacant eyes. Scott lies closest, hand outstretched toward Stiles, but a trail of viscera stretches behind him.   
  
The pain spikes again as the claws dig in, and Stiles' gaze is drawn to his attacker. Cold eyes glow, red as the blood in Peter's smile.   
  
"How does it feel, Stiles?" he asks, whispering in Stiles' ear like he's sharing a secret, "to know this is all your fault?" He pulls back, just far enough to grin at Stiles again, and then he moves back in, teeth growing into fangs.   
  
  
Stiles jerks, swinging his arms wide, or at least trying. He falls back almost immediately, because the pain from before is _nothing_ compared to this. This is _real_ pain; the kind that makes his body tense, his jaw clench and tears well in his eyes as he tries to ride it out.   
  
"Shit," someone says nearby. "Stiles? _Stiles._ " A hand grabs his good shoulder, and he lashes out automatically. His arm is grabbed before he can strike anyone, though, and he's pressed down onto something soft; a bed.   
  
"Help!" the same person yells. His dad. His dad yells. "Can I get some help in here? Melissa! Stiles. Stiles, it's me. _Breathe._ " The fight drains from Stiles as he lets himself relax, breathing easier, and actually look around.   
  
"Dad?" he says weakly and doesn't complain a bit about the pain when his dad gives him a weary, worried smile and pulls him into a slightly too tight hug.   
  
"You scared the hell out of me, kid."   
  
\---   
  
  
It's early Monday afternoon, almost fifteen hours since Melissa saw Stiles collapse outside the hospital doors and sixty three since Peter took him. Stiles is told half a dozen times in his first hour awake how lucky he is to be alive. He might even be sufficiently grateful for their liking if he wasn't still feeling the effects of blood loss, power drain, and the really good drugs they used to keep him under while they took the knife out. Instead, he's tired and surly and just wants everyone to get the hell out of his room so he can tell everyone who needs to know about Peter and go back to sleep.   
  
Fuck his life.   
  
The doctor leaves, finally, with one last warning not to move his arm, it's already likely he'll never regain full use of it. Stiles thinks he probably has a plant for that. Not that he has it here, or the power to use it right now. Once the door is shut, he lets himself sink back into the pillows.   
  
"Danny?" Stiles asks his dad warily as he moves back to the bedside.   
  
"No one's seen him since you were taken," his dad says. "We thought he might have been with you. There's still an APB out on him." Hope and fear wage war in Stiles' chest. No body means the bite could have taken and Danny is off somewhere figuring out his new wolfy powers. More realistically, it means someone got rid of the evidence.   
  
"We should- we should have the wolves check around the school. And the preserve," Stiles says, half to himself, trying to keep his breathing steady. They've probably already done it. Already searched everywhere. But he needs- He can't- "See if- if they smell anything."   
  
"Stiles," Dad says hesitantly, glancing at Mrs. McCall, standing at the foot of the bed. Then, it's like sheriff mode switches on, the fear draining from his face, his voice getting more confident. "I need you to tell me what happened."   
  
Stiles nods, sighs. "Yeah, but not without-" there's a tap on the door, and Scott is already letting himself in with a sheepish smile.   
  
"I messaged Derek," he says, "but he's in the middle of something important that he wouldn't tell me about. I'm supposed to fill him in later." There's only a touch of bitterness in his words. Stiles is impressed. Scott shifts a bit, like he's unsure, until Stiles spreads his good arm.   
  
Scott gives the best hugs.   
  
\------   
  
  
The nightmares don't stop, and Stiles wakes in a panic, feeling constricted. He fights with the hospital bracelet, desperate to free himself from the ropes that bind him. Around him, the room is dark, empty, but it still feels like there's someone there, watching. The machine monitoring beeps as his heart rate jumps.   
  
Stiles tries to sit up, like that will make him any less vulnerable, but everything is swaying a bit. Or maybe it's just him. He gasps for breath, swallows around it. It's not enough, never enough. there's not enough air in the room, the room that's swaying. Stiles shuts his eyes tight as a wave of nausea hits him; curls in on himself, still tugging frantically at the thing around his wrist. It barely even registers when the light flicks on.   
  
Someone says his name, drawing closer, closer. A familiar voice in an unfamiliar tone that he just can't place. Right now, everything is a threat. A hand curls soft around the arm he's trying to tear the bracelet off of and Stiles jerks violently, all the tension thrown into the recoil. And the pain. _God,_ the pain. He can feel the stitches tear.   
  
Stiles just sort of tips to his good side, curling into a ball as best he can, breathing through the initial searing. A tentative touch falls on his wound, gently moving his own hand aside, and Stiles doesn't have it in him to fight anymore. There's no new pain, though, and after a moment, the agony abates, drawn out through the warm contact.   
  
"It's okay, Stiles," Derek says. "You're safe. I'll stay here, just go back to sleep."   
  
And it seems reasonable enough, so Stiles does.   
  
\------   
  
  
Stiles isn't sure whether the night before was a dream or not, but he _had_ torn his stitches and it was nothing like his usual dreams of Derek, so he's inclined to think 'not'. Mrs. McCall redoes the stitches in the morning with pressed lips and a furrowed brow, like she can't decide whether to lecture him or pity him. Either way, she bullies him into a sling and reminds him very sternly not to move it much. And if he gets any bright ideas about cutting out his own stitches and stuffing some weird magical plant crap into the wound, she will… no Scott for a week. So there goes that.   
  
The hospital releases him that afternoon, though not before he hears how lucky he is three more times, with antibiotics, hydrocodone and instructions to rest and check back in a few days. If all goes well, that is one appointment Stiles definitely won't be making. Though, realistically, all never goes well. Still, even though he probably won't be able to use anything actually helpful (like yarrow; god, he loves yarrow) until the end of the week, the scar he'll get from this should look sufficiently badass, and in some way he kind of feels like he's earned it. At least he's not left-handed.   
  
A patrol car follows Stiles and his dad on the way home, then parks across the street and just sits there. Surveillance. Like there isn't at least one werewolf hidden away in the yard. It isn't surprising, though, not when a group of kidnappers and murderers is still on the loose and Stiles is the one who identified them (particularly Richard "Dick" Murdoch, who Stiles told them was the ringleader. The police would be out of their depth with any werewolf, but Peter… well, he was the pack's business).   
  
Even though he needs to go into work, the sheriff stays, has lunch with Stiles, stalls until school is almost out and Stiles assures him the house will be crawling with werewolves in a matter of minutes. The good ones.   
  
It turns out Stiles underestimated the pack, because when his dad locks the door behind him, and Stiles finally makes it up to his room, Derek is already there.   
  
"Scott talked to you?" Stiles asks, dropping down on his bed. He blinks a bit too much, trying to keep his eyes open.   
  
"Yes." Normally Stiles would nag about Derek's inability to communicate properly, but, well, Stiles can totally understand why Derek might not want to talk about this one. Derek clears his throat awkwardly and Stiles can hear fabric shifting.   
  
"If you're planning to lecture me, tell me not to get involved anymore, or apologize, please, for the love of god, _don't_." Derek continues to not say anything, so Stiles assumes that must have covered it. "Sucks that your creepy, evil, undead uncle is still creepy and evil and out for your head, man. Sorry."   
  
"Tactful," Derek says flatly, then sighs. "I kind of new, before Scott told me. I couldn't be sure, but with what he said about what happened Friday…"   
  
Stiles sits up. "What _who_ said? _Peter?_ " Derek actually looks surprised.   
  
"No. Your boyfriend. Danny," Derek says, then takes in Stiles' apparent incomprehension. "Boyd found him in the preserve yesterday. Scott said he would tell you."   
  
Danny. Danny is alive.   
  
The clinging, desperate fear that Stiles has been carrying with him since he saw Danny's body hit the ground slowly drains away, and he just sort of sags back into his headboard, like the space it vacated can't support him, keep him up, any longer.   
  
He's going to kill Scott. Danny's alive.   
  
\------   
  
  
The werewolves of Beacon Hills, for all their superhuman powers, are not actually masters of stealth. The only one Stiles can't manage to spot on their shift of guard duty is Isaac, though Stiles suspects he may just go off somewhere and come back at shift change. The whole thing is ridiculous. Scott, at least, comes in and spends the time hanging out, even if he pretends he's not playing bodyguard.   
  
Stiles hits his breaking point around midnight, when Derek shows up outside his window and just kind of crouches there, staring out at the street. It's hard to throw a window open with one hand, but Stiles is fairly satisfied with the level of drama he achieves, though it's basically all useless since Derek could hear him coming anyway.   
  
"Seriously? What if the police noticed you lurking?" Stiles asks, running a finger through the line of mountain ash he'd put along the window. "Get your ridiculously well-formed ass in here. You can guard me from inside. I'll put out my 'beware dog' sign." Derek rolls his eyes, but does. And if he happens to pull Stiles from another nightmare that night, neither of them mentions it.   
  
Derek is gone come morning, and in his place is Boyd, having breakfast with Stiles' dad. Waking up to werewolves. A year ago, Stiles would've thought this was awesome.   
  
Lydia waltzes in after school Wednesday with a few books and her laptop and informs him they're studying faeries. After all, it's not like he has anything better to do. With the pain pills in his system, though, he falls asleep half an hour into a book he doesn't remember anything about. She nudges him awake around five and gives him a kiss on the cheek and a reminder that life-threatening wounds that he'll be speed-healing in days are no excuse to miss her party on Saturday. There's something almost ethereal about her, but Stiles isn't sure if it's that she's learning faerie magic or just because he's on drugs.   
  
Derek takes night watch again, and Thursday goes much the same. By Friday, Stiles has the energy and focus to start using his own healing measures, and everyone he associates with has come by to visit/do guard duty at least once. Everyone but Danny.   
  
Erica says he's doing alright, adjusting better than some did. Derek glares at Stiles when he asks and just says Danny is 'fine'. But Danny doesn't visit. He doesn't call, message, email. And Stiles would get it if Danny doesn't want to see him anymore, if he doesn't want to talk to him. He just wants to know.   
  
Around six that night, Stiles' dad knocks on his half-open door and pushes it the rest of the way open to admit his son's maybe-boyfriend under a disapproving parent stare. And while Stiles is trying to be understanding, it's kind of nice to have someone pissed on his behalf. When his dad looks at him questioningly, though, he waves him off.   
  
This moment doesn't need to be made any more awkward by having the sheriff chaperone it. It's painfully awkward all on its own. Neither of them speaks for what feels like an hour, and Danny seems to be doing everything he can not to look at Stiles. He shuffles his phone from hand to hand, stares out the window with his head cocked like he's listening to something, fiddles with- with the necklace Stiles gave him. Danny's still wearing it.   
  
"So… hi," Stiles says finally when he can't stand the heavy silence anymore. His hands move of their own accord to twist his ring, a nervous habit at this point, only to meet bare, bruised skin; the bone fractured when he punched Peter. They fall to his lap.   
  
"Hey," Danny replies.   
  
Another awkward pause, Stiles sighs and tries to push himself into a slightly more upright position. Manages it, even though he can't stop his hiss at the spike it drives through his shoulder. It's okay, though, because Danny makes an aborted move to help him, and you don't try to help people you hate, right? Right?   
  
"If you're here to tell me that you didn't sign up for this shit and you never want to see my face again, I think I would've prefered a text." Stiles isn't even sure if he's joking.   
  
"You don't have a cellphone right now."   
  
"Oh." Right. Everyone he might have called was visiting him every day anyway. Stiles hadn't even realized he was still without.   
  
"And somehow I forgot what a drama queen you can be. I'm not breaking up with you, Stiles."   
  
"You're not?" Danny shakes his head with a suppressed smile. "Okay. In my defense, that was a perfectly legitimate assumption."   
  
"Yeah," Danny agrees pleasantly. "If you're Derek Hale. Look, Stiles, I knew from the start that you were mixed up in something, and I didn't want to know about it. I mean, you kidnapped Jackson and held him in a stolen police van-"   
  
"Borrowed."   
  
"- for two days. There was _no_ way it wasn't dangerous, and I decided to go out with you anyway. I mean, technically you're kind of in a gang, which I guess I am too now, but you're trying to help. And at least you're not dealing heroin like my first boyfriend."   
  
"Your-" Stiles' brain short circuits. " _What?_ "   
  
"I'm not exactly known for my great taste in guys, Stiles," Danny says, like this is something Stiles should already know. That's probably true. "You're-"   
  
"Did you just say I'm in a gang and compare me to a drug dealer?"   
  
"-kind of a dick, but you're also probably the best guy I've ever dated. When Lydia-"   
  
" _You thought I was in a gang?_ "   
  
"-found out we were dating, she told me I was too good for you-"   
  
"Why-"   
  
" _Stiles,_ " Danny says exasperatedly, and Stiles' head jerks in his direction, question dying on his tongue.   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
"No, I didn't think you were in a gang, even though you are, or dealing drugs. Think you can catch up now?"   
  
"Yeah, sure, right. Uh… you were saying…"   
  
"Well, I _was_ trying to pay you a compliment, dickface, but nevermind now."   
  
"What, no! Tell me." It's familiar banter, an ease with each other Stiles hadn't even realized they'd fallen into before, and it's comforting. Normal, when nothing else is.   
  
"Lydia said I was too good for you-"   
  
"How is that a compliment?" But Danny is back to ignoring him.   
  
"-but at least I'd smartened up and picked someone who'd be good to me." Stiles squeaks out a small, slightly guilty 'oh'. "And if I ever broke your heart she'd… I'm not really sure, but I think it involved my balls and something painful."   
  
"So, what now?" Stiles asks. Danny smiles with those ridiculous dimples of his.   
  
"Now, we make out, and I pick you up at eight tomorrow for Lydia's party. Erica already got our costumes."   
  
\------   
  
  
By halfway through the night, the weirdest thing about Lydia's party is that nothing weird has happened at Lydia's party. The wolves are all a little on edge, but after a couple hours they loosen up, which is good because their agitation was making Stiles tense, and he's too paranoid still to risk getting drunk.   
  
Erica, with her fanged grin and red hood, drags him out to dance at one point before wandering off to grind with Boyd. Stiles spots her later with Isaac, Lydia caged between them. The first time he spots Allison, as Robin Hood so she can stay armed, away from Lydia's side, she's disappearing down the hall with Scott. She comes back ten minutes later with a forced smile to dance with Mark from the lacrosse team. Stiles is sure he'll hear all about that later.   
  
Right now, though, he's a little busy being led away from the crowd by Superman. Danny whispers in his ear that he knows somewhere they won't be disturbed, but they don't quite make it that far. Stiles' back hits the wall in the hallway, strong hands sliding up his sides, under his shirt, while a warm tongue trails up his neck.   
  
"Fuck," Stiles breathes, drawing Danny up to bite at his lips, one hand reaching down to grab his spandex-clad ass and pull him in. Danny's hard erection grinds again Stiles' and one of them lets out a very satisfied groan.   
  
And then someone screams, and Stiles should have known nothing could be that simple for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to have this up about a week ago, but better late than never? Come visit me [on Tumblr](http://wolftraps.tumblr.com)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one or two chapters left (not sure yet). No new warnings for this chapter. There's a decent amount of violence.

"Your first day back. How are you holding up?" The tone of her voice might be concern, but Stiles really can't tell. It sounds just like everything else Morrell says: soft and forceful.  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
"Except?" she prompts, because it's literally her job not to take "I'm fine" as an answer or something. Stiles shrugs.  
  
"Except I'm not. I'm always terrified. I can hardly stand to go anywhere alone. When I _can_ sleep, I get nightmares, and I wake up to panic attacks. I'm jumpy and I can't focus, even more than usual, and I feel completely helpless with my arm in this thing." He shakes the arm cradled in a sling and winces, though honestly he doesn't need the sling anymore. It was really just a reminder to begin with. "Like a sitting duck. Oh, and my boyfriend's parents hate me. But hey, at least my dad and I are talking now."  
  
"It's not surprising you have some post traumatic stress. You've been through quite an ordeal."  
  
"Yeah," Stiles scoffs, "I guess that's one way to put it."  
  
"How would _you_ put it?"  
  
"I was kidnapped and tortured and stabbed, and the man who did it was killed and left on my friend's lawn, literally wrapped in a bow, as incentive for me to join the gang of nutcases who not only abducted me but also have been killing people for the last couple months. Who's to say the next body won't be punishment for resisting?" His hands are shaking and he can't get them to stop. "I'm in hell, and I don't know how much longer I can hold my breath."  
  
"You think they're going to try to come after you again?" Yes. Absolutely.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
\------  
  
  
Stiles withdraws from cross country completely, not that it makes much difference. He's only run about half the season and there's maybe four weeks left. He tells Coach he's using the time to rest up in preparation for lacrosse and gets a heavy hand on his shoulder and an emphatic "Good thinking, Stilinski. For once." Instead of practice, he goes home, with Erica or Allison in the passenger seat, or to the library with Lydia and Allison, after which they train.  
  
It's always with them, at one of the Argents' various practice areas, never at the Hale House anymore. Let the werewolves train to fight werewolves. He does spend more than one night in Derek's loft, though, while his dad is on patrol; pouring through the old books Derek has salvaged or collected until he passes out. He won't tell Scott, let alone Derek, but sometimes Stiles does it on purpose. He wakes up stiff after a couple hours but its the most restful sleep he gets.  
  
When he's home, he always wakes up gasping for breath, not sure where he is, until Derek knocks on the window and lets himself in. He'll turn on the desk light and pick up a book and tell Stiles to go back to sleep, and that's all either of them will ever speak of it. In the morning, Derek will be gone, but there will be a passage marked in the book, some spell or plant or little bit of information that could be useful. He and Lydia are about the only ones that will help.  
  
Stiles tries not to let it bother him, he understands where everyone is coming from mostly, but it's infuriating. Scott keeps repeating that he's _worried_ about Stiles, that he doesn't think this is _healthy._ Allison asks in a knowing tone if he's sure he wants to go down this path. Isaac flat out tells him he's gone nuts. Danny…  
  
Danny lets himself in Stiles' window and shrugs, self-satisfied, when Stiles throws him a judging look. His next step in is a bit more hesitant.  
  
"Is this-" he asks haltingly, waving a hand towards the assortment of books and papers Stiles has spread in a circle around him on the bed.  
  
"Obviously it's Peter's entire life history and lists of every person he's ever spoken to categorized by relationship." Danny doesn't look impressed, but whatever, neither is Stiles. " _Chill._ It's all my make-up work from school. Turns out getting stabbed doesn't exempt you from writing a five page minimum essay on the symbolism of light in The Scarlet Letter. Wanna help me?"  
  
"You mean do it for you so you can go back to tracking down a serial killer? I think that's probably cheating."  
  
Stiles can't help the way his jaw clenches or his grip tightens until the tip breaks off his pencil, but he doesn't snap because, damnit, he's _trying_ here. "I mean do it _with_ me so I don't lose my mind and fail every class this semester. Which is more like, say, tutoring."  
  
"That is nothing like tutoring," Danny says. "Anyway, I can't. Isaac's teaching me tracking today, and my parents planned a sudden mandatory family night." Surprise, surprise.  
  
"You could've just texted." Stiles sounds sullen. He knows he does. But who can blame him when this is the fourth time in two weeks that Danny's bailed on him. That's four dates out of _five._  
  
"Yeah, well, I thought you deserved a little better than that. Sorry," Danny snaps. Stiles flinches, sighs, presses fingers into his tired eyes.  
  
"That's not what I-"  
  
"I know what you meant, but I'm not the only one dropping the ball here, Stiles. Yeah, I've been busy; like _you_ were before. But every time I come over here, all you talk about is Peter and his witch, something you read in one of Derek's books, a tracking method you want to try, analyzing everything he said to you. You joke about it, Stiles, but you're seriously _obsessed._ " It's nothing he doesn't know, nothing the others haven't said, but like this? Accusing, from someone who Peter had left for dead not long ago? It _hurts._  
  
 _"So what if I am?_ Huh? You gonna tell me to stop? Gonna tell me not to worry about it? You think I'm overreacting? That Peter isn't the most dangerous thing we've ever faced?" Stiles is stripping off his shirt before he can think better of it, ignoring the sharp pain that comes each time he moves his shoulder too far or too fast or in the wrong direction. He gestures angrily at the red, barely formed scar. "Do you see this? Do you know how many times in the last three months alone I've been sure I was going to die?  
  
"Peter is _Dangerous_. Capital fucking D. He came back from the fucking dead; he killed off our untouchable magic vet; he left me the mutilated corpse of his werewolf follower as a _present_. And I can't stop thinking, who's next? If I keep holding out, how long will he wait? Any given moment, he could be going after my dad, Scott, _you_ , just to punish me. And we already know he wants to kill Derek, his _nephew._ And we have no way of knowing how he'll attack, when, what special magic _way_ beyond my abilities he'll have at his disposal. We don't know how to stop him. And I spend every waking minute terrified that he's killing everyone I love, and when I fall asleep I have nightmares that he already has and he's coming for me. And no one else is even _worried_ about how unprepared we are. So yeah, Danny, call me obsessed, but that doesn't mean I'm crazy or _wrong._ "  
  
All the air seems to leave him with the last word, and he has to fight to get it back, but he does. One labored breath at a time, the world stops trying to move away.  
  
"Stiles?" Danny asks, soft, unsure. But Stiles is too tired for this.  
  
"I'm fine. You should go. Don't want to be late for family night."  
  
"... I'm sorry."  
  
  
"You alright, kid?" Stiles' dad asks as soon as Danny's gone. The motion sensor they'd installed just inside the window had probably alerted him to Stiles' visitor, arrival and departure. At least his dad understands that desire.  
  
"Yeah," Stiles says, looking over his open books, completely lost as to where he left off. "Guess I'm staying in tonight, though." Dad hums thoughtfully.  
  
"Well, Syfy's marathoning some of its original movies tonight. How about I order Chinese and you bring some of that downstairs?" Stiles shouldn't. There's so much work to get done and it's almost impossible for him to accomplish anything with the TV going, but he feels wound so tight.  
  
"Yeah," he agrees. "That sounds great."  
  
\------  
  
  
Danny comes by again Saturday and apologizes, though Stiles can tell it's not entirely sincere. The look Danny gives the piles of research spread across the desk is disdainful at best. He's here, though, and doesn't try to push it, and he's ready to spend the whole night with Stiles. So they make up (and out), order pizza, and spend most of the night just hanging out in Stiles' room, getting Danny _very_ familiar with his bed. Things go fine as long as neither of them mentions Peter or training, though Stiles does notice this _look_ Danny gets whenever Derek comes up in conversation, a slight tensing of his muscles. It's weird, since Stiles had been under the impression Derek and Danny were getting along fine.  
  
He wants to ask but manages to keep it in. Let tonight be conflict free. Instead, he rolls over to lay on top of Danny, running his hands down Danny's ridiculously muscled chest, and ducks down for a kiss.  
  
  
Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night, panicked as always. At least he doesn't scream this time. Danny stirs a bit beside him, but goes back to sleep when Stiles assures him he's fine. Apparently he's tired enough not to hear the lie.  
  
Slipping on sweatpants and grabbing his phone from the headboard, Stiles heads downstairs, to the kitchen. The light in the fridge is almost blinding as he grabs the milk jug. The bright 3:45 am on the screen of his phone is only slightly less so and it barely registers, his brain still sluggish from sleep (or lack thereof). So it's no surprise that the phone rings in his hand for nearly ten seconds before it occurs to him to answer.  
  
"Lydia?" he asks in lieu of any real greeting. "It's, like, four in the morning."  
  
"And obviously neither of us were asleep," she says, far more awake than him and slightly breathless sounding. "That doesn't matter, though. I got him, Stiles. I found our tracking spell. We can end this."  
  
\------  
  
  
They hold off until after daybreak, Lydia coming to Stiles' house until then to show him the spell and talk logistics, but by noon, Lydia and Stiles have everyone gathered at the McCalls', sitting in the living room around a map of the city. It's just like old times.  
  
"It's a fairly simple spell, for lack of a better word," Lydia explains as Stiles starts setting up the things he'd spent most of the morning gathering. Dirt at the cardinal points on the map and the center, taken from the corresponding real world locations. Clear quartz at the corners. Sacred thorn apple, crushed. And a small gold ball, a bead from one of Lydia's earrings. "Similar to many scrying spells, but a bit more specific."  
  
Stiles takes the knife from his pocket and, holding his breath, jabs the point into a fingertip, squeezing out a half dozen drops into the small bowl with the ground flowers. Then he wipes the tip of the knife with the bottom of his overshirt and holds it out to Derek along with the bowl.  
  
"I need shared blood," Stiles tells him. "Six drops. And you're the only family left." Derek nods and takes the bowl without a word, foregoing the knife in favor of one of his own claws.  
  
"What we need now," Lydia continues, "is a plan of action once we have his location."  
  
"Well, we don't have those things to mask our scent," Isaac says. "And unless you've got something else up your sleeve, he's gonna hear us coming from a mile away. Literally." Stiles does his best to look unimpressed with Isaac as he rolls the bead around in the bowl, trying not to think about the fact that his fingers are coated in actual blood up to the first knuckle. He holds the bead in his hand and tries to send it intent and belief.  
  
"A frontal attack is out of the question," Chris says, looking to Derek who nods stiffly in agreement. "So we need a diversion. Make it seem like we're giving him what he wants." He stares directly at Stiles as he says it, and it takes all of two seconds for Stiles to figure out what he means. The bead drops from his hand.  
  
"You want me to be _bait?_ " Stiles asks incredulously. "Like hell I'm going in there alone. Does no one else remember what happened the last time he had me? Send Derek! Peter wants him, too, and it doesn't really matter if _he_ gets stabbed." Derek scowls at him and Stiles shrugs, unapologetic. "What? You heal."  
  
"You won't be alone," Danny says. The first thing he's said since he woke up to Stiles and Lydia plotting at the breakfast table. "I'll go with you."  
  
"What? Danny, no-"  
  
"I'll go too," Derek cuts in. "Pretend you trapped me, that you want to negotiate. Me, for the lives of your friends."  
  
"Yeah, _that's_ gonna happen." No one else says anything, all either avoiding looking at Stiles or staring at him expectantly. "What? No. This is a bad plan, and I know bad plans. Seriously, does no one else see this going poorly? Because I can think of a dozen ways it'll go to shit in the first five minutes."  
  
On the table, the bead stops rolling. It sits at the end of a winding trail of blood, rocking in place on the east side of town.  
  
\------  
  
  
It's not as simple as the attack on the alphas back in the summer. They can't just waltz in the next day and hope for the best. Peter knows them too well, all their styles and little tics. And this building, an abandoned mall, is a much larger arena than a little cabin in the woods. And they'll have no way of knowing if there are any magical booby traps or whatever until they trip them or get Stiles dangerously close.  
  
Isaac and Boyd spend the better part of the week scouting the area, but never straying too near. Meanwhile, Stiles is running himself ragged, boosting everyone's protection charms and trying to find viable ways to mask scents and sounds, digging up blueprints for the mall. He spends two days trying to figure out how to believably contain Derek without actually restricting him in any way before Chris Argent comes up with a solution.  
  
By Wednesday afternoon, Stiles has so many things running through his mind that he barely remembers to go to his counseling session, and his frayed nerves have his instincts going haywire. He almost punches Harris, flinches every time Coach talks a bit too loud, and he's so nervously tense the whole time he's with Ms Morrell that he'd swear he's buzzing. It gets so bad she suggests an extra session on Friday. He can't help it, though. She just keeps asking questions and giving him these suspicious looks. Maybe. Probably. It's really hard to tell, the lady only seems to have one expression and it's "inquisitive schadenfreude".  
  
After school, he skips the library, nursing a pounding headache and so wound up that he lets Erica convince him to let her drive his Jeep, though he warns her she's paying for any repairs if they crash. It isn't until she's parking in his driveway that he remembers she doesn't have a license yet. He takes all of fifteen seconds to mentally freak and hope his dad isn't home before he decides it's basically the "and jaywalking" of their lives, and then he retreats inside to pour some willow bark tea over a cup of sugar and choke it down. It's worth it when his headache starts subsiding five minutes later.  
  
The sun sets just before six, and Derek shows up as soon as dark falls with Chinese take out, using the door no less. Either one on its own would be bizarre enough. Both together? Stiles decides this must be a pod person and tries to give him some tips to blend in better, but not-Derek rolls his eyes and tells Stiles to shut up, which is such a Derek thing to do that now Stiles is all confused. He fumbles to get a good grip on the food when Derek shoves it at him so he can shrug off his jacket. Which, of course, solves the identity question, because no one could copy that level of physical perfection, and _god_ Stiles hopes Danny isn't close enough to smell him because experience says Derek won't say anything and you can't blame a guy for noticing.  
  
They do talk about Peter and the plan, Stiles showing off his handiwork with a sort of pride he hadn't known he felt until just then, but not for long. Derek himself steers the conversation away to more ordinary topics. School and sports and places Derek and his sister had gone while they were away from Beacon Hills. There's a sort of comfortable familiarity between them Stiles had never dared hope they would achieve, and it's simultaneously great and terrifying because somehow it feels like this is their last chance. They can plan all they want, but they both know their chances of making it to next week.  
  
Still, the gravity of that thought doesn't keep Stiles from taking advantage when Derek offers to help with the boatload of make-up work still piled on his bed. They fall into a familiar quiet, reminiscent of night after night spent in similar positions, listening to the drone of the police scanner. At eleven, though, far earlier than Stiles would ever choose, Derek closes everything (including the laptop Stiles is still using, so not cool) and orders him to sleep.  
  
"I thought you were supposed to be my guard dog. Who made you my babysitter, Nana?" Stiles complains even though he's already pulling sleep pants from the dresser. (It totally fits, too. After all, Derek's there to protect him from the evil Peter, come to take him to Neverland, or an old abandoned mall, whichever.)  
  
"Your dad," Derek calls after him as Stiles heads for the bathroom. "He called me to ask where the hell I've been for the past week and when I was going to get my ass back here because you haven't slept in days."  
  
"That traitor," Stiles mutters to himself. The smirk Derek gives him when Stiles comes back in his bedroom isn't unkind, and it's the lightest Stiles has felt in a long time.  
  
Of course, he has to ruin it with his curiosity and lack of tact. He lays in bed and stares out the dark window, listening to Derek page through a book under the dim desk lamp, and he has to ask. "Why does Peter blame you? For the fire. You didn't seem surprised."  
  
It's silent for so long, truly silent, not even a rustle of movement, that Stiles is sure that Derek is horribly offended and probably considering jumping out the window. He opens his mouth, prepped to apologize, because they had been doing so well.  
  
"I was sixteen," Derek says quietly, pained, but he also sounds determined to get it out. "Kate was twenty-two-"  
  
By the end of the story, Stiles isn't sorry to know, but he still almost wishes he hadn't asked. It was obviously going to be painful for Derek no matter what, just talking about the fire, but this? Almost seven years after the fact and it's still like Stiles is pouring salt on an open wound.  
  
"I know you won't believe me," Stiles says, sitting up to look at Derek while he says it, doing all he can to show how serious he is, "but it wasn't your fault."  
  
Derek shrugs it off and neither of them say another word. When Stiles falls asleep this time, he dreams of fire and Kate's smug grin, but Derek is still there to calm him down when he wakes up gasping.  
  
\------  
  
  
"You sure about this?" Scott asks Friday, just like he has every day this week, since they'd decided on the plan. And while Stiles appreciates the concern, really, there comes a point where it starts being just another reminder of what's to come, and it's _super nerve-wracking._  
  
"Yeah, buddy," Stiles assures Scott yet again. "I'm sure." And Scott looks at him sort of sadly and wraps an arm around Stiles' shoulders, because he's Scott, so of course he can't just let Stiles keep pretending it's not a lie. They both know it's too late to change plans now, though.  
  
Fairly late into the night, Lydia knocks twice on the front door and lets herself in, because things like locked doors are no match for Lydia Martin. (Stiles doesn't ask even though he _really_ wants to know.) She pulls him from Mario Kart into the kitchen, probably for the illusion of privacy even though it's not nearly enough to keep Scott from overhearing. There, she pulls a bundle from her purse and hands it off with little ceremony. The pair of daggers are simple, but good.  
  
"We're not going in unarmed," she says. "They're wolfsbane laced; Allison helped me. I was hoping you could do something, some counter measure, in case he has magical protection."  
  
The blades are strong metal, but not terribly conductive. The handles, though, _that_ he can work with, and there's a few things he's come across to try. Stiles nods and thanks her, tells her he'll get hers back to her before the plan is set in motion tomorrow, and then walks her back out to her car. She hesitates, just before getting in, and then swings around to wrap him in a hug.  
  
Just a few months ago this would've been the highlight of Stiles' life. But while the small part of him that will always be in love with her can't help but feel a miniscule speck of hope, Lydia Martin plays a very different role in his life these days. She pulls back, wipes her eyes lightly and sniffs.  
  
"I swear to god, Stiles," she says, "if you get yourself killed tomorrow, I will bring you back to life and beat the crap out of you myself. You know I can do it. Erica will help me."  
  
" _Damn straight_ ," Erica's voice calls from the direction of the backyard, and Stiles smiles.  
  
"Just gotta ruin all my fun, don't you." Lydia rolls her eyes and shoves him a step back, but he catches her hand and pulls her into another hug. "I'll do my best."  
  
  
Scott is still in the living room with the game paused when Stiles comes back in, weapons in hand. His face is somber, reflecting the mood leftover from Lydia's visit, and it's more than Stiles can handle right now.  
  
"Anything I can do to help?" Scott asks, and Stiles considers it. Truthfully, he should get to work on amping up the weapons, since he doesn't know what will work or how long it will take him. But he kind of has a precedent of blowing off things he should do when other things are weighing on his mind, and it's not like he's going to sleep tonight anyway.  
  
"Yeah," he says, setting the daggers down and picking up the game controller. "You can let me kick your ass."  
  
\------  
  
  
"You don't need to do this," Derek says grumpily as Stiles fastens the manacles on his wrists and checks the fit. There's a tone to his voice that suggests he's trying to be reassuring, which is possibly more worrying than if he was outright doomsaying.  
  
"While your attempt at useless platitudes is admirable: like hell I don't. This plan may be doomed to failure on the grounds that Peter's no longer _brain dead_ , but it's the best plan we've got." Stiles clips the lock on the chain and steps back to survey his work.  
  
"I can go in alone."  
  
"Yep, not gonna happen, big guy. Okay, these should work. The chain is normal iron, you should be able to break it no problem. The cuffs are a magically enforced silver alloy, courtesy of Chris Argent and myself. They shouldn't bend when you break the chain, and if I did it right, they'll hopefully give your hits a little more umph."  
  
"Umph," Derek repeats mockingly, and Stiles' scathing reply is cut off by Danny's arrival.  
  
"We ready?" he asks coldly, looking hard between Derek and Stiles, and there's no way it's just nerves from what they're about to do, but Stiles also can't deal with anything else right now. This is one of those things he's just going to pretend doesn't exist until it inevitably disappears or slams him against the nearest wall.  
  
Stiles checks the map laid out on Derek's table one last time, gold bead still rocking over a point on the east side, and nods. "Let's go."  
  
\------  
  
  
It goes disconcertingly smooth, initially. Beth shows up to meet them about a block from the mall, but she's apparently under orders to bring Stiles straight to Peter should he be dumb enough to come. Which he obviously is. He fights down the anxiety growing with every step.  
  
"You shouldn't have come," Beth says, not unkindly, her eyes flickering briefly to his shoulder. She glances over Danny and Derek assessingly, only for a moment, but Derek's chains and whatever hostility Danny's harboring toward him make the situation obvious and at least superficially believable.  
  
"He didn't really give me much of a choice," Stiles says. She nods.  
  
"I heard what Richard did. Did you at least wait until you were healed?"  
  
"Yes ma'am." Stiles salutes her with his left hand to prove the shoulder's functionality. "Did you want to check for yourself?"  
  
Derek takes the opportunity to feign an escape attempt and lets Beth take him down with minimal difficulty, snarling and snapping at her when she drags him back. It does the job; she thinks he's been made weak. Beth looks at Stiles like she's impressed and has no issue turning her back on Derek to lead them in.  
  
  
Peter lounges on the main stairwell, inspecting his claws, obviously waiting for them, and he dismisses Beth with a casual wave. It's hard, _so_ hard, but Stiles manages not to make a comment on delusions of grandeur and just watches Beth go, silently hoping she'll make it out alive after this all goes down. She seems like good people if you ignore the part where she probably murdered someone.  
  
"I'll admit, I was expecting you a bit sooner, Stiles," Peter says, stepping down off the stairs as if from a throne.  
  
"You're not exactly an easy man- wolf- guy to find," Stiles says, thankful that his body still calms when struck with fear even if his mind is trying to rifle through exit strategies, "and I still haven't decided to accept your offer."  
  
"No? Pity." Peter sighs. "Why are you here, then Stiles? And with my nephew in chains, no less." His voice gets steely towards the end, spoken like the very idea is distasteful, like he hasn't said he wants to kill that same nephew for being seduced by a woman when he was sixteen.  
  
"I want to make a deal with the devil. I figured I should have a decent bargaining chip." Stiles shrugs casually, slipping his hands in his pockets to feel the hard handle of his sheathed dagger. If he can convince _himself_ he has an advantage, _maybe_ he can buy the time they need. "Look, you wanna be the big shot of Beacon Hills and continue on this extremist revenge kick? Fine. I brought you the means to do it." Derek growls low, taking a step toward Stiles before Danny hits him possibly a bit too hard in the stomach and kicks him to his knees.  
  
"In exchange, you guarantee the safety of me and mine," Stiles continues like nothing happened.  
  
"That is a tempting offer, if a bit naive and trusting." Peter hums, then looks Stiles over with an appreciation that makes Stiles' stomach churn. "Then again, I'm sure you've thought of some way to hold me to my word. After all, if you can bring Derek down and get him here- Obviously my faith in your abilities hasn't been misplaced."  
  
Peter stands in front of Derek, a hand flashing out to grip Derek's hair and yank his head back so they're staring each other in the eye. "It's perfectly understandable for me to want you dead, you know. You did essentially kill me twice."  
  
"Take these chains off and I'll give you another reason."  
  
Peter tsks. Actually, literally tsks. "That was weak, Derek. Just like you, though, I suppose. But don't interrupt. It's rude. As I was saying, it's perfectly understandable for me to want you dead. I don't, though. I don't actually want to kill my last remaining family member. But you're in my way. So I'm going to give you one chance. You killed me, Derek. What do you have to say for yourself?"  
  
"Go fuck yourself." Peter's hand drifts down, then flashes across Derek's face, leaving lines of blood and flesh from temple to chin, and the _howl-_ Stiles desperately hopes the pendant around Derek's neck does some good, because if it doesn't, Derek probably just lost an eye. There's a _plan,_ though, and Derek can still defend himself if it comes to it, so Stiles lets Danny's hand on his shoulder keep him from interfering, even when Peter's claws dig in under Dereks jaw in an uncomfortably familiar move.  
  
"One more chance, Derek." Werewolf powers apparently don't extend to hocking loogies, so the mouthful of blood strikes high on Peter's chest rather than in his face like Derek probably wanted.  
  
"You killed Laura."  
  
"She had it coming," Peter spits, and that's the end of Derek's last straw. He snaps the chain, one hand coming up to extract the claws from his flesh while the other lashes out, slashing claws across Peter's chest. And it's too soon, too soon, but if it _works-_  
  
It doesn't. Peter stumbles back, shirt torn to shreds, but there's not a scratch on him. Derek freezes and Peter laughs. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you? _Really,_ Derek. You may have Stiles making little trinkets and lying for you - not very nice, Stiles, I thought we were friends - but my practitioner is stronger and _far_ more experienced. It's going to take a lot more than that for you or any of your pack to hurt me."  
  
Shouting and sounds of a struggle echo through the area, drawing closer until Peter's pack starts filtering in from different sides, pushing Scott, Boyd, and Erica in ahead of them. Stiles can only hope Isaac evade capture, because he can't deal with the alternative right now.  
  
"Oh look, here they are now." Derek growls, shifting into an offensive stance, but Peter has him suspended by the neck in the blink of an eye. Literally. Stiles shrugs off Danny's hand and rushes in, half unsheathing the dagger as he goes. If he can get in closer, closer enough to touch- he'll have to be fast, inhumanly fast, but if he can just make contact, then he can cancel out Peter's protection. He knows he can. He knows he can because this is too crucial for something as shaky as "belief".  
  
Peter's glare snaps to him with a growl, not fully transformed but still in some terrifying state past beta form, and Stiles' stomach drops because someone is grabbing him from behind, familiar hands forcing his bad arm up behind his back and dropping him to his knees.  
  
"Danny?" It's not. Not really. Danny jerks his arm a bit harder in response, to the point Stiles can't move without risking dislocation at best, and when he looks back, Danny's face is feral, eyes blank. Stiles can't help but remember a night spent trapped in the school, Scott prowling the halls, and he curses himself for not even thinking of this possibility. There's a shout across the huge room as Scott tries to fight his captor.  
  
"You don't deserve to be an alpha," Derek chokes out, claws grappling uselessly at the hand on his neck.  
  
"Me? _I_ don't deserve it? I should _always_ have been the alpha. It's amazing how gullible you are, Derek. You really are a sorry excuse for a leader," Peter sneers. "Laura _never_ should have been the alpha, even if I was half dead. Maybe you were too young to remember, but she was born human, Derek. A sickly child bitten by a visiting alpha when she was seven and we both know alpha status passes through _born_ wolves first. So how do you think Laura inherited that power, hmm? She was _worthy?_ No. Kate may have poured the fuel, but she wasn't the one who struck the match."  
  
"No," Derek says, but he sounds more broken than disbelieving.  
  
"And you. You're the one who brought her in; who introduced them. Once you're gone, my revenge is complete." Peter pulls his free hand back, claws aimed at Derek's heart, and as Derek attempts to switch from clawing to squeezing, Stiles could swear for just a fraction of a second Peter winces. Screw whatever happens to his arm, Stiles goes to yell to Derek, to tell him to try blunt force rather than gouging, but he doesn't get a chance. An arrow sprouts from Peter's shoulder, just missing his unnaturally beating heart, courtesy of Allison; her entrance masked by Peter's ranting and Derek's blood and the thyme bracelet Stiles had stolen.  
  
The world turns to chaos as everyone fights back against their captors, and Isaac attacks one of Peter's betas from behind. Stiles tries to pull away himself, yells to the others to "bludgeon, not carve", but he can't tell if they hear him, and a single glance from Peter has Danny's claws pressing at his jugular. His right arm is free still. If he keeps his movements small, he could probably get to his dagger. (Allison's arrow suggests Peter's protection is either only for slower, close range attacks or only against werewolves.) But there's still the matter of not wanting to poison Danny.  
  
Derek seems to have either heard Stiles or figured it out himself that his claws won't do the job. He kicks out, landing an awkward but hard blow just beside the head of the arrow, and Peter finally drops him. Derek puts a few feet between them and preps to fight without claws, but there's a slight waver to the movement, the gashes down half his face still bleeding heavily.  
  
They shouldn't be. They should be healing. Why- And Stiles remembers. Ethans body, Boyd's back. Remembers Peter, inspecting his claws as they walked in.  
  
He can hope, believe, and wish for it to go unnoticed, but Peter's too good. The fight between him and Derek is painful to watch as he stands back, smirking, waiting for Derek to come at him and sending his nephew stumbling back each time until the pain and blood loss is too much and Derek crumbles.  
  
Peter steps over, resting a foot on Derek's chest. And Stiles doesn't know if it actually happens, but to him it seems like everything comes to a standstill; everyone stops to watch. And someone needs to do something, needs to _help. He_ needs to- he slowly works the dagger from his pocket, planning to throw it even if it gets him his throat ripped out because Peter _cannot_ be the alpha of Beacon Hills, and Derek- Derek-  
  
The dagger clatters to the floor, Stiles' hands shaking too hard. He needs… no. Stiles holds his breath and counts down from ten.  
  
"That's it, Derek. You've lost.  
  
 _eight._  
  
"Don't you get it?  
  
 _six._  
  
"You and your pathetic pack-  
  
 _four._  
  
"You _can't touch me._  
  
 _two._  
  
"I-" Peter cuts off with this sound that will probably stay with Stiles for the rest of his life, stumbling away from Derek and trying to reach behind his back, turning to see who had shoved the dagger between his ribs, veins already standing out stark black.  
  
Lydia stares back at him, silent and emotionless, as he collapses; until he stops moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... there's a chance you may be a little upset with me. You can find me over [ on tumblr.](http://wolftraps.tumblr.com)


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